Broken Souls
by MsBarrows
Summary: Keran finds himself assigned to a remote post for six months, his only company a young tranquil mage named Feynriel. Rated M for eventual smutty bits.
1. A Position of Trust

"Do you understand your orders, Keran?"

"Yes, ser," Keran said, standing stiffly at attention before Knight-Captain Cullen.

"Good. Be prepared to leave at first light tomorrow."

"Yes, ser. Err... ser, about my pay..."

The faintest of smiles lifted the corners of the Knight-Captain's mouth. "Don't worry about your sister, Keran – I'll see to it that a portion of your pay is sent to her each month while you're away. If you'll stop by the treasurer's office, he'll also have a three-month advance on your pay ready for you, which should cover any last-minute purchases you might want to make, and last you until you return next spring – there's damned little to spend money on out there. I'd advise you to stop by the market today," Cullen added, almost conversationally. "Pick yourself up a few little luxuries – there'll be only the most basic of supplies at the post, and there'll be few opportunities for you to go to the nearest town to buy anything extra you want. Especially once winter sets in."

"Yes, ser," Keran said.

Cullen nodded curtly. "Dismissed."

Keran bowed, and left the Knight-Captain's office. He was feeling rather surprised over the assignment he'd been given; it was a position of some trust, involving as it did an extended placement away from the Gallows, essentially an independent command, though the only people under his command would be himself and the staff of the outpost – a single Tranquil mage. Still, considering how close he'd come to losing any position at all in the Templars – not to mention his sanity and life – just four short years before, and how he'd been under close scrutiny by the Knight-Captain ever since, he chose to take it as a good sign.

Though it could equally well be a sign of just how short they were of templars that the Knight-Captain was willing to trust with unsupervised care of the Tranquil. Oh, they'd _tried_ to cover up what Ser Alrik and his clique had been up to, but after his rather messily violent death the year before, along with all the templars with him – well, Templars gossiped as much as the next person. Possibly more, having fewer things with which to occupy their off-duty time. Disturbing rumours had spread anyway, and it was easy to believe them when it was noticeable that none of the survivors of Ser Alrik's coterie were ever allowed on guard duty over the Tranquil any more.

Still, as good a sign as this new assignment was of Cullen's growing willingness to accept Hawke's word that Keran had not been demon-possessed as a result of his mis-adventures four years ago, and even coming as it did with his long-delayed promotion to being a full Templar, no longer just a recruit, he was not looking forward to it with any particular enthusiasm. It meant a half-year away from the Gallows, stuck in a lonely outpost in the middle of nowhere, an hour or two away from the closest thing that passed for a town, with no one for company – if it could even be called that – except a single Tranquil mage, and the occasional passing trader.

He would, he decided, follow the Knight-Captain's advice about picking up some little luxuries for himself, and began putting together a mental list even as he turned his steps towards the treasurer's office to pick up his advance. A good stock of his preferred blend of tea, some tins of those little spiced cookies he particularly liked... seasonings, since the standard supplies were unlikely to include much more than salt. And a supply of books to help pass the time, and some warmer clothes for winter wear, and...

He smiled, amused to find himself looking forward to the pre-trip shopping, at least. It was rare that he allowed himself to spend much of his pay on fripperies. But as the Guard-Captain had pointed out, there'd be damned little to spent it on once he was at the outpost. Just this once, he could indulge himself.

* * *

><p>Cullen glanced nervously over at the young man so calmly driving the cart they both rode in. Feynriel, he'd been introduced as when they'd met up at the Gallows' docks to catch the first ferry of the morning over to the city. He was young, only barely out of his teens at a guess, tall and slender and very blond, with pale skin and eyes of a bright gold colour. Keran might have taken him for entirely human, except he remembered the name – remembered it, because the story attached to it had involved Hawke, his own saviour. The young man was half-elven; knowing that, and looking carefully, he'd been able to pick out a few subtle differences in his physique that suggested Feynriel's true heritage. Thngs like a barely noticeable sharpness to the upper curve of his ears, how the structure of his chest was narrow but deep, the slender curve of his hips, his lack of facial hair. His face was set in the eternal emotionless calm of the tranquil, the skin smooth and unmarred save for the brand on his forehead.<p>

It made Keran shiver a little, seeing that and thinking of what it stood for. He couldn't even begin to fathom what that must be like; living without the ability to feel emotion. Not just the unpleasant ones like fear, anger, and grief, but to never again be happy, amused, excited, in love... it was like they weren't even _human_ any more.

And he was going to be stuck with this one for the next six months.

He decided to break the silence that had lasted since they'd claimed their waggon at the gates of Kirkwall and set out. "Don't talk much, do you?" he asked, a touch nervously, feeling very self-conscious.

Feynriel kept his eyes on the road ahead of them, expression changing not at all. "I speak when I am spoken to," he said, voice soft and without intonation. "Or when there is something that must be reported."

"Oh," he said, and briefly fell silent again. "You know Hawke, don't you? He saved my life once," he added, just a bit proudly.

"He didn't save mine," Feynriel answered.

Keran could think of no adequate response to that. The silence between them resumed.


	2. Travel and Arrival

It took just under a full week of travel to reach the trading post. They camped out under the stars most nights, the weather still being warm enough to allow it, and it being less tedious than dealing with the almost inevitable unease and distrust of people around the tranquil. Keran could understand their unease; he felt it himself, even as used as he was to the expressionless faces and voices of the tranquil from years of exposure to them at the Gallows. They were eerily _other_, no longer able to react to events in normal ways, and most people found them more than a little unsettling.

The division of their camp chores was easily enough managed, the tranquil having been trained as a drover in advance of this assignment, among other skills. Feynriel looked after the horses and waggon, while Keran saw to laying a fire, cooking their one hot meal each night, and the division of their travel rations each morning and noon – hard biscuit, dry sausage or jerky, and a little dried fruit.

There was very little conversation between them. Apart from a time or two that Keran asked him direct questions, or the rare occasions when Feynriel had something to say related to driving the waggon and the condition of their team of horses, the two of them rode along in silence, organized their camp in silence, passed their evenings in silence. There was no exchange of appreciative or teasing comments about Keran's cooking, no rambling talk about any interesting things they saw during their steady travel each day, no shared confidences, little jokes, or pre-sleep conversation – none of the exchanges that Keran would have considered normal between two adult men travelling in close company.

On the other hand, compared to the non-stop, often malicious gossiping of the barracks, it was rather restful. Without the distraction of talk, and with nothing to do most of each day except sit there on the hard bench beside Feynriel and watch the countryside go by, he spent a lot of his time just lost in thought. Sometimes of nothing more important than how sore his arse was from the unsprung cart rattling along the rutted road, occasionally worrying about the months of comparitive isolation to come, but mostly just flitting from topic to topic as his mood changed.

They reached the trading post in early afternoon on the sixth day. It was a boxy stockade-enclosed building nestled in the foothills of the Vimmark mountains, where the trade road from Kirkwall to Cumberland passed by the foot of a narrow pass that led north through the mountains. The pass would be closed all of the winter; the road for a good portion of it. But the trading post still needed to be manned, for the late- or early-season traders, and as a shelter for anyone who was on the road in winter, including templar patrols out searching for apostates.

Their cart had barely pulled into the courtyard and come to a stop before a templar came out of the building, a half-eaten piece of bread in one hand. "Good, you're here!" he said, smiling happily. "Don't bother unharnessing the horses, we'll be leaving right away."

The man turned his head toward the door. "You three - come upload the cart!" he shouted.

"Err... I'm Keran..." Keran introduced himself hesitantly. Three tranquil exited the building and began unloading the cart, carrying the extra supplies Keran and Feynriel had brought off into the building.

"Yeah, whatever... everything here is in order, the books are in the office, stocks were topped up for the winter two weeks ago. If you need anything the closest town is a little hamlet about a two hour walk further west, at least until the snows close the road. Wouldn't recommend attempting the walk after that. Give my regards to Mistress Fiona if you go there – she'll treat you right," the man said with a salacious wink, then his gaze shifted beyond Karen and he frowned. "Order your tranq to get to work. Cart won't unload itself," he said, then crammed what was left of his piece of bread in his mouth.

Keran looked around, and realized Feynriel was still sitting on the bench seat, hands holding the reins. "Feynriel, help with the unloading," he ordered, and was mildly surprised to realize that it was the first time he'd had to give the man a direct order since their second day on the road. Their days had pretty much followed a routine since leaving Kirkwall, with little to no variation from day to day other than the changing landscape they'd passed through, and the tranquil were very, very good at following regular routines. Sometimes too much so, carrying on their normal activities even when it would have been wiser, for one reason or another, to stop.

Feynriel said nothing, just bent down to tie off the reins, then descended from his seat and joined the other three in unloading.

"Come on, leave them to that," the other templar said. "I'll give you the ten copper tour before Carl and I head out. You lot, get your things and put them in the cart as soon as you finish unloading."

The tour was very brief, the other templar leading him rapidly around the building to point out the locations of the office, storage rooms, work room, kitchen, baths, and bedrooms, of which there were three – a large slant-roofed room occupying most of the attic space, with a supply of folding cots where travellers could stay overnight, a tiny very plainly furnished three-bed dormitory for the tranquil, and an only slightly better furnished two-bed room for the templars. The other templar, Max, was in there, shoving clothing into a pack. He grunted when Keran was introduced to him, and otherwise ignored him.

The first templar – Keran never did learn his name – grabbed up his own pack and bedroll, which were sitting on the other unmade bed, and grinned at Keran. "Well, we'll be heading out. Try not to go too crazy over winter. Sorry we're leaving the place a bit of a mess – we were just finished up lunch when you arrived."

And with that he turned away and walked off without even a word of farewell. Keran stood there a moment, shocked at the man's cavalier attitude, then Max pushed past him and headed out of the room as well. He trailed along in their wake. Everything was off of the cart, and the pair threw their packs in the back before climbing up and sitting down on the driver's bench. The group of tranquil came out of the building a few minutes later, each carrying a crudely made bundle of belongings, and put them in the back of the cart, then at a snapped order from Max climbed in and sat down on the floor of it. The first templar had meanwhile untied the reins. He gave them a flick, the horses snorted and resumed moving, and he guided the cart in a small circle and back out the gate. Keran's last view of them was of their backs as they drove away, not glancing back even once, the three tranquil seated blank-faced in the bed of the waggon, lurching a little as it rattled away down the rough road.

"Well," he said, and glanced around the empty courtyard, then mentally shrugged and went back indoors to take a closer look at his domain.

The departing pair had indeed left the place in a mess – and more of one than could be explained by just one day's haphazard housekeeping. They'd left the kitchen, their bathing chamber and bedroom a sty. The workroom, and the dormitory and bathing chamber for the tranquil, on the other hand, were clean and neat, everything in its place.

He found Feynriel standing motionless in the dining hall, their packs and bedrolls at his feet. Keran picked up his things, and looked around. "Bring your things and follow me," he ordered, and led the way to the bedrooms. He hesitated in the hallway a moment, then put his things in the tranquil dormitory; it was at least clean, and he thought tackling the kitchen to bring it to a reasonably sanity state a higher priority than seeing to cleaning up the better of the two bedrooms for his own use.

He ordered Feynriel to put his things down and then go make a start on cleaning the kitchen. Once the man had left he stripped out of his armour, leaving it stacked neatly on the third cot for now – no point in moving an armour stand in from the other room when he'd only be in here for one or two nights – and changed into plain leggings and a short-sleeved tunic, and indoor shoes, then went and joined Feynriel at work.

It took considerable effort to clean the kitchen properly, the two of them hauling and heating water, scrubbing and scraping every surface. Like most tranquil, Feynriel did a very thorough job once he'd been put to work. He was still scrubbing every easily reachable surface within an inch of its life with lye soap and hot water when Keran laid a fire in the newly-cleaned fireplace – it had taken the two of them several trips to haul out all the accumulated ashes – and drew a pot of water to begin a stew for their supper.

The pantry was at least well-stocked, and a wide assortment of different dry goods, preserves and salted, dried or smoked meat and fish were available. A wooden trap door in the floor proved to lead down into an equally well-stocked root cellar, the walls of good solidly laid stone. He made his selections and returned to the kitchen, where Feynriel was carefully taking every pot, pan, plate and mug down off of the open shelves and stacking them beside the sink, obviously planning to give them all a wash. Keran left him to it – the pot he was making the stew in had been tacky to the touch when he'd first picked it up, and required a good scrubbing before he was willing to use it in food preparation.

He put a smoked pork hock in the pot over the fire, poured in a quantity of dried peas and lentils, then settled down on a stool at the freshly scrubbed work table, and set to peeling and chopping vegetables. He'd picked out a nice variety of things – onions, carrots, parsnips, turnips, potatoes, and cabbage – both to celebrate their arrival in some small way, and as a change from the very bland and simple meals they'd had on the road.

He watched Feynriel while he worked, the peeling and chopping only requiring some of his attention. The young man was working steadily, washing each item thoroughly and carefully, then rinsing it in a bucket of clean water before stacking it to one side, his head bent over the sink in concentration as he worked, wisps of hair falling loose around his face. He didn't bother pushing them back out of his face, as most people would have, but instead seemed completely unaware of them. Keran supposed things like loose hair tickling your cheeks wasn't as irritating when you couldn't even get irritated to begin with.

After a while Feynriel stopped washing, drained the sink, and put more water on to heat. Then he dried what had been washed so far, restacking everything on the other end of the worktable from where Karen sat working. He must plan to wash down the shelves before putting anything back on them, the templar realized, a plan he highly approved of.

Feynriel was still busy washing dishes when Keran had added the last of the ingredients to the pot, so he set to work on cleaning the shelves himself. The lowest ones were easy enough to reach, but the top shelves, some still laden with dishes... "How are we going to clean those easily," he muttered, looking upwards at them with his his hands on his hips, then jumped with Feynriel replied.

"There is a step-stool in the cupboard where I found the cleaning supplies," he said.

Keran nodded. "Thanks. I'll go fetch it," he said, and headed off to find it.

After he'd returned, he climbed up and passed down the rest of the dishes – most of them sticky to the touch with accumulated dust and cooking grease, some of the least easily accessible of them trailing films of cobwebs, and a few containing the long-dead remains of beetles and flies. By the time everything had been removed, and Keran had scrubbed the shelves to his satisfaction, their dinner was smelling delicious, and his stomach was pointing out that lunch had been both a long time before, and had consisted of nothing more than a couple of hard tack biscuits.

"All right, let's take a break and eat," he said, and looked around the kitchen from where he was still perched on the top of the step-stool. "We've made a good start on this, but I don't think we'll get the rest finished tonight."

Feynriel silently extracted bowls and spoons from the piles of dishes, and stood waiting while Keran hooked the pot out from over the fire. He fished out the pork hock, quickly stripping off the meat to return to the pot, the bones going into a bucket near the door to carry out to the midden later with the rest of the waste, then he ladled out servings for both of them. "Let's eat in here," he suggested, gesturing at the work table. "At least we can be sure this table is clean."

Feynriel nodded, and the two perched on stools and ate. Keran smiled over the soup – thick and hearty, and so much more tasty than anything they'd had since leaving the Gallows. It would have been even better if he'd taken the time to search out his belongings and use some of the seasonings he'd brought along, but it was more than good enough as it was.

They worked together by lantern-light after the meal to finish washing all the dishes, Feynriel washing while Keran dried and stacked. It reminded him of doing chores with his sister, and he found himself missing Macha, and wondering how she'd be during his months away, and hoping she'd be all right. True, with his duties in the Gallows and her work as a seamstress they rarely saw each other more than once or twice a month anyway, but at least he'd been _there_, available if she needed him. Now... well, he'd just have to hope that she had no problems while he was away, or that if she did, someone would help her with them – the Knight-Captain, or Hawke, though he couldn't picture her working up the nerve to approach the former, and the latter would require money, which he knew she was always short of.

"That's enough for now," he said tiredly once the last dish had been washed and dried, hanging up the last soaked-through dish towel to dry while Feynriel rinsed the sink clean. "We might as well make an early night of it – I'll take out the scrap bucket and lock up for the night. You can go straight to bed, if you wish."

"Yes," was all Feynriel said in answer, wringing out his dish cloth and hanging it up before leaving the room.

Keran carried out the scraps. The midden was easy to find – he just had to follow his nose. He dumped out the peelings and bones and wilted leaves, then set the bucket beside the door to rinse out the next morning before bringing it back indoors. He locked barred the kitchen door, then walked through the building and out the front, and pulled the outer gate closed. He stopped on his way back into the building, his attention caught by the brilliance of the stars overhead – the night was cold and clear, the sky here unobscured by smoke as it would have been in Kirkwall. He just stood there for a few minutes, head tilted back, staring. Then sighed, and went back indoors, making sure to bar that door as well.

Feynriel had already changed out of his robes and into a nightshirt, and was lying on his back under the sheets of his bed, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. Keran turned his back and quickly changed into his own nightshirt, and crawled into the bed that was, at least temporarily, his own. He curled up on one side, back to the other man and his pillow wadded up comfortably under his head, and dropped off to sleep very quickly.


	3. Settling In

It took them most of the following morning to finish cleaning the kitchen, as well as cleaning the dining hall adjacent to it. That at least took considerably less work, since there was nothing in the room apart from a few tables and chairs. It felt good, once it was all done, to sit down and eat their simple lunch in the room. At least Keran had a sense of accomplishment from that morning's work, as he looked around at a clean room smelling of nothing worse than lye soap and the breeze blowing in the open windows. He glanced over at Feynriel, who was calmly chewing on a mouthful of hard tack and cheese, eyes lowered to watch his plate.

Keran wondered if the tranquil had anything like the feeling of a job well done, when they couldn't _feel _at all. And if they had some non-emotion-based equivalent, did that explain why they were invariably so thorough about accomplishing any task they'd been given? Or was it simply that since they didn't get bored, or distracted by other emotions, that there was nothing to make them stop a job once they'd started it? Apart from finishing the job or being given other orders, anyway. Or stopping because they needed to eat, sleep, or evacuate.

He considered that for a while. There was the odd tale of some tranquil who worked themselves half to death because someone forgot to tell them to stop whatever they were doing, but he'd always considered those apocryphal, having never seen a tranquil actually do anything of the like. Though he _had_ seen them keep on working beyond a point where most people would have stopped; carrying on with an open-ended order, because there was no reason to stop. You generally had to be careful not to tell them things like "do thus-and-so until I tell you to stop", for instance, and when you did, you needed to be very sure to actually be on hand to tell them to stop at the appropriate time. Because they'd _keep_ doing it until physical necessity or other orders intervened.

Which led him around to considering what to tell Feynriel to do for the afternoon. The templars' bedroom and bathing chamber still needed cleaning, but he also needed to start familiarizing himself with his duties here. It wouldn't do to have a supply caravan or a patrol come in, or some merchants, and have no idea of how things should be handled. He wished, a little irritably, that the departing templars hadn't been in quite such a rush to leave; it would have been nice to have someone he could question. On the other hand, considering the state they'd left things in... perhaps it was just as well they'd left so promptly, since it had allowed him and the tranquil to make an immediate start on cleaning up behind them. So, he should spend some time in the office today, looking to see what records or orders he could find that expended on the general orders he'd been given by Knight-Captain Cullen before coming.

"Feynriel," he said, and waited a beat for the other man to look at him before continuing. "Once you've finished eating, clean up from lunch, and then I'd like you to clean the bathing chamber off of the other bedroom. Once it's clean, fill the boiler and start it heating. I'll be working in the office if you have any questions. If you're unsure about anything, come and tell me what it is. And in any case, come and tell me once the water is warm."

"Yes," the other said with a nod, and returned his attention to his meal.

Having finished his own lunch already, Keran rose and departed, heading off to the office.

It was a mess, not particularly filthy thankfully – he guessed the two templars had spent as little time as they could in here – but it was disorganized, the top of the desk hidden under a layer of bits of parchment, folded letters, and heavy ledgers. At least having it all stacked up right there made it obvious which were the most commonly needed documents – a pair of ledgers, one of which proved to be a record of shipments received and disbursed, and a second that contained a record of what the currently allowed prices were for anything he was authorized to purchase from independent merchants. Mostly he'd be dealing with shipments sent to or from other establishments of the chantry, for which there was nothing that needed to be paid. He was only to resupply the supply caravans with whatever they had signed orders authorizing them to take elsewhere. All very easy to figure out.

He did have a moment of panic when he realized he had no idea where the money to pay merchants was kept, or even how much was on hand. But it made sense that it would be in or near the office, and some methodical searching eventually led him to discover the trapdoor under the rug behind the desk, which when opened revealed a dwarf-made vault. One of the keys on the ring he'd been given unlocked it, and inside of it were several pouches of coin and another account book. More coin than he'd ever seen in one place in his life; enough to keep him and his sister fed and housed for over a year, he judged. And not even one copper of it his to spend, he reminded himself sternly.

That worry assuaged, he went back to sorting through the things on the desk, sorting them into piles. Most of the detritus proved to be orders, authorizing changes to the approved pricing lists, or to the way the business of the outpost was to be conducted. There was also a small amount of personnel mail to assorted past occupants of the outpost, and an assortment of random notes that he assumed were reminders to themselves written by the previous templars, all of which he put in a pile for recycling. Parchment was too valuable to throw away, when it could always be scraped down and reused instead.

He'd everything sorted and was hard at work cross-referencing the orders with the pricing book to make sure all the indicated changes had been made – and had in fact already found one that had not been noted in as it should have been – when Feynriel came into the room.

"Yes?" he asked, looking up from his work.

"The bath water is warm."

It was only when he glanced in surprise at the narrow window behind his back that he realized how long he'd been working; the afternoon was gone, the shadows outside lengthening towards twilight. And he hadn't even started anything heating for supper yet... well, he'd figure something out. For now, the idea of finally being really _clean_ again after so long on the road followed by a day and a half of hard work was more attractive then the thought of food.

"Excellent," he said. "Do you know where our personal supplies were stored when they were brought in yesterday?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good! Show me to them then."

Feynriel led the way to small storeroom near the bedrooms, where the few crates containing the extra supplies Keran had purchased were stacked. He was glad he'd followed the advice of one of the move widely experienced templars and marked each with a number; it took him only minutes to find the one that contained the good soap and soft towels he'd bought, on the advice of that same templar. He picked them up, and sent Feynriel off to fetch his pack from the bedroom, while he carried his new purchases to the bathing chamber itself.

The room was immaculate, as clean as the kitchen and dining room now were. The water in the big copper boiler was steaming gently, which brought a smile of anticipation to Keran's face. He hung his towels on the rack near the tub, and put one bar of the soap on the little ledge for such handy to the tub, before putting the rest of the bars away on a shelf. Feynriel arrived with his pack, and he spent a few minutes digging out his other toiletries – shaving mug and brush, razor, leather strop, comb and brush, and so forth – and putting them all neatly away.

When he was finished he opened the tap that started the big tub filling from the copper,then started to undress. He'd gotten as far as removing his shirt and sitting down on the edge of the tub to take off his shoes and stockings when he realized that Feynriel was still there, standing blank-faced by the door, having been given no further orders since arriving with the pack. He flushed slightly, annoyed with himself for forgetting the other's presence so easily.

"Would you like to use the bath?" he asked hesitantly. He wouldn't hesitate about offering to share the room with another templar – he'd been living in barracks with communal bathing facilities since joining the order, after all – but he wasn't sure what the protocol was about sharing facilities with mages, especially tranquil ones. Especially, and the thought made him frown slightly, after the recent revelations about the way some templars had abused their authority over their tranquil charges.

"There is a separate bathing chamber for the tranquil," Feynriel said calmly.

Which, Keran was intrigued to notice, was neither a _yes_ nor a _no_. "Yes, if you consider a bucket of cold water and a washcloth a proper bath. Which I don't. If you would prefer to have a real bath, you can either share with me, or use the water once I'm done."

The tranquil stood silent for a while, long enough that Keran was thinking he was going to have to rephrase that as a more direct question, then he stirred, just slightly. "A hot bath is good for sore muscles," he said, in the same flat calm voice he said everything.

"Yes, it is," Keran agreed. "And after this last week, I'm certainly sore, and I'd bet you are too. And the bath is just about full, you'll note. You can either share it with me, or go wait in the next room until I'm done."

"I will share," Feynriel said, and began to undress.

Keran politely turned his back, shucking his own leggings and smallclothes, and putting all his clothing neatly aside where it wouldn't get splashed, then stepped into the tub. He sighed in pleasure as he sat down in the hot water, ducking briefly under before he picked up his soap. Feynriel stepped into the tub as Keran finished lathering up his washcloth. He waited until the other man had seated himself, then handed him the bar of soap before setting to giving himself a good washing.

He mainly kept his attention on himself, of course, but sharing the tub as they were, seated hip-to-feet beside each other, he couldn't help catching occasional glimpses of the other man's body. Overall Feynriel was quite slender, very much like an elf, but with the wider shoulders of a human. And unlike an elf he did have a noticeable amount of body hair; though he certainly wasn't hairy by any but the most generous definition of the word, having only a faint dusting of fine hairs on his legs and forearms, and a narrow trail of hair running from navel down to groin, where there was a thicker patch of gold curls, completely unlike the velvety fuzz that was all elves typically had there. Any body hair he had anywhere else was too fine to be seen at all.

After a few minutes of scrubbing Keran put aside his washcloth and ducked under again to rinse off. He leaned back against the slanted side of the tub for a while, eyes closed, just enjoying the heat of the water as the soreness of overworked muscles gradually eased. The splashing sounds of Feynriel cleaning himself stopped too. Once again he found himself considering how quiet it was, compared to if he'd shared the bath with another templar. It was, he supposed, something he'd be noticing a lot over the coming months; the quietness. Not just between the two of them, but everywhere here, the only noises he'd heard since the others had left – apart from the sounds he made himself – being the breeze rustling through the trees outside, birdsong, and the occasional sounds Feynriel made as he worked.

Only once the bath water had begun to cool noticeably did he finally open his eyes and sit up again. Feynriel was sitting motionless, almost stiffly upright, eyes unfocused, his hands folded neatly in his lap under the water, still holding his own washcloth. His almost-tense stillness was slightly creepy, Keran thought, but he supposed the tranquil had been unsure of what to do once his bath had ended.

"All done?" he asked mildly, as he rose to his own feet. "Or do you want to soak longer?"

"I am done," Feynriel said, and rose as well. Keran grabbed a couple of towels off of the rack, handing one to the tranquil and keeping the other for himself.

At least Feynriel didn't need to be told what to do next once he'd been set in motion again; he dried himself off neatly and efficiency, then wrapped the towel around his hips and picked up his dirty clothing. Keran, meanwhile, had done the same. He caught up his pack as well, and led the way back to the bedroom, where they changed into clean clothes.

"Empty and clean the tub and then come to the kitchen, I'll put together something for supper," Keran said.

Feynriel nodded, and headed off again. Keran went to the kitchen, and made a simple but filling meal of bacon, cheese, and rounds of unleavened pan-bread cooked in the sizzling bacon grease. He'd purposefully made more dough than he needed, and he thinned the remainder down with a little extra water and put it aside. With luck, it would be bubbling away in a ferment by the next day, and he'd have starter for making proper bread in future.

The two of them ate in the dining hall again, cleaned up after themselves, then retired to bed, there being nothing that needed doing enough to justify wasting oil or candles on.

Keran lay awake for a while before sleep that night, making mental lists of all the things that still needed doing. The other bedroom to clean, the office to finish re-organizing, and he should check on the state of their supplies, particularly of necessities like firewood. The rest of his stuff to unpack, and put away in the kitchen, pantry, or bedroom. The...

He dropped off to sleep at last, the building silent save for the soft breathing of the two men.


	4. Accounts Balanced

They cleaned out the templars' bedroom the next morning, starting by stripping the bed frames right down to the supporting ropes. The sheets and blankets were grimy and stunk of old sweat, the straw tick mattresses were flattened and sagging, and smelled of must, mildew and mice. It took both of them working together to carry each of the heavy ticks in turn out back of the building, where the dusty, crumbling contents were shaken out and added to the midden. Then Keran sorted through the odds and ends left behind in the room by previous occupants, putting aside a few odds and ends worth salvaging, but consigning most of it to either be burnt, thrown on the midden, or washed and then torn up for bandages, depending on what it was and its condition. While he did that, Feynriel hauled water to refill the boiler in the bathing chamber, and then tightened the supporting ropes in the bed frames.

In the afternoon, after a light lunch together, while Feynriel scrubbed out the room – now empty of everything but the actual furniture – and did a laundry of the sheets, blankets, ticking, and their dirty clothing, Keran finished sorting through everything in the office. It was going to be a long, tedious job to match up and properly file away everything, he could see, and muttered some minor curses about lazy predecessors and their lack of proper organization. Though at least it would be something to keep him busy for a while, he supposed, which would likely prove a good thing – once they'd finished the cleaning and reorganization of the place, he suspected his biggest danger would be boredom.

He spent a third night sleeping in the tranquil quarters, and the next morning he and Feynriel harvested armfuls of dry grasses from the meadows surrounding the outpost, as well as the flat fragrant evergreen leaves of cedar from the forest in back of it, using the materials to re-stuff the now-dried mattress ticks. The room was quite pleasant now that it had been cleaned up and the beds re-made, and it was with great satisfaction that Keran finally moved his belongings in. The bed in here was considerably more comfortable than the pads of wadded cloth in the tranquil quarters, he noticed when he went to bed that night. And the room even quieter, with only himself in it.

Over the next couple of days he set Feynriel to conducting an inventory of the storage rooms, making sure their contents matched what was in the records, while he himself worked his way through his neat stacks of documents in the small office, finding a few more minor errors in the record keeping, but thankfully nothing that he would consider critical, or in need of reporting up the chain of command. Though it did darkly amuse him, on going through the account book for the cash on hand, to see notations that would seem to indicate several of the previous occupants had borrowed money from the operating funds – at least that was the only explanation he could think of for odd notations like "Tmr Wllm 2g 15s" under withdrawals, and three subsequent deposits over the next two months under the notation "Wlm" that added up to the amount withdrawn. That was technically against the rules, but, again, something that he didn't feel was worth reporting to anyone. Not unless he wanted to earn himself a reputation as a stickler and a troublemaker, anyway.

He wondered if the books were ever audited at all, and what would happen if the funds were short of what they should be. He counted the money in the vault, which occupied a good chunk of one morning, and was pleased to see the amount was only a few silver out from the recorded balance. Of course, without auditing the books himself, he had no way of knowing if that was actually the amount that _should_ be there or not. Nevertheless, he topped up the missing funds out of his own pocket, just to have the minor satisfaction of the amounts starting out matching on his watch.

With the worst of the cleaning behind them, the pair of them quickly settled into a routine. First thing in the morning Keran would rise, take his daily dose of lyrium, and spend a while in exercise to keep himself in proper condition and fighting form. Feynriel would prepare a simple breakfast for the two of them, and mixed the dough for their daily bread. They would eat, then Feynriel would go off to perform his duties – mainly involving proper maintenance of the enchanted items in storage, and the creation of additional items in the small workroom – while Keran worked in the office for a while. He'd take a break partway through the morning to shape the bread, and set something to cook for their evening meal, which also warmed the bread oven set in the side of the kitchen fireplace. Some more work, then back to the kitchen to put the bread in the oven and prepare their lunch, which always had bread still warm from the oven, and sometimes leftovers of whatever he'd made for supper the day before, otherwise things like cheese, cold meats, and pickled vegetables.

He didn't like the size of the wood pile, and had a nasty suspicion that the previous pair of templars, who should have been adding to the stock over the summer as part of their regular duties, had skimped on the work. So he spent a while each afternoon gathering wood from the forest around the outpost. There was very little deadfall available anywhere near the trading post, previous occupants having already hauled such away, so he had to fell living wood and chop it into manageable lengths to drag back to the outpost, where he cut it into proper billets and stacked it to dry. It was hard work, but he felt satisfaction every time he looked at the increased supply of wood for the winter, every stick of it representing additional heat and light.

He'd also identified some things to do around the building itself, things like chinking gaps to keep out drafts, and similar minor repairs, and once he'd tired himself out with wood gathering would fill whatever daylight time remained in performing such small tasks. Then it was back indoors to eat dinner with Feynriel, the pair of them cleaning up the kitchen together afterwards before retiring to their separate bedrooms.

They'd been at the outpost a week and a half before they had their first business; a merchant, travelling from Kirkwall north to Tantervale, and in a hurry to make it north through the pass before it was closed by snow, which would start much sooner up there in the mountains than down here in the foothills.

He was a cheerful fellow, and talkative, peppering Keran with questions, anecdotes, and news of recent doings in Kirkwall in about equal measure. Keran was able to tell him nothing about current conditions in the mountains, there not having been any southbound travellers since before his own arrival, or at least not any who'd stopped at the trading post. The news from Kirkwall was about what he expected, with tensions between the qunari and the residents getting steadily worse.

"I'll tell you this, I'm glad to be out of there and headed north," the merchant assured him. "I wouldn't want to be on hand if the horn-heads decided they'd had enough of sitting around on the docks and decided to cut themselves out some more elbow room, if you know what I mean."

Keran nodded agreement. And immediately started worrying about Macha, still back there in the city. But there was nothing he could do, except pray to Andraste that nothing would happen, and that if it did, she'd be all right.

Having a little extra space in his carts – representing the supplies he and his men had consumed since departing Kirkwall – the merchant purchased some of the goods from the trading post to take north. Keran smiled as he recorded the transactions in the appropriate ledgers, deducting the stock from the inventory, and adding the coins paid for both the supplies and an overnight stay in the post to the account book. His first entries in the book, carefully written out in his neatest hand.

The merchant and his men spent the night in the attic room, their carts in the courtyard and their animals – a mix of horses for riding and mules for hauling – hobbled in the meadows outside the stockade. The merchant was suitably cautious, setting guards in pairs overnight to keep an eye on his stock and livestock to make sure no predator or thieves walked off with any of it, though it would take a brave predator indeed – or a foolish one – to take on a herd of mules. The canny animals were good at protecting themselves, and not easily frightened by wolves or lesser predators. He and his group set out again first thing the next morning, waiting only long enough to eat a cold meal out of their own supplies before moving on.

Keran set Feynriel to cleaning up the little mess left behind from their brief residency, then went off to begin his own somewhat delayed daily routine.


	5. Feynriel's Day

Feynriel opened his eyes. Light was leaking in the window; another day begun. He rose, made his bed, stripped off his nightshirt and neatly folded it, then set it down on the pillow. He dressed, carefully and methodically, from the skin out, from smallclothes to outer robe, making sure each piece of clothing was properly secured, neat, and hung as it should. He stood still a moment, motionless except for the fingers of his right hand tracing the texture of the fabric that made up his out robe, while he mentally reviewed what he should do today.

Then he walked to the kitchen. Keran was in the dining hall, doing his exercises in a cleared space, as he did almost every morning at this time. Feynriel walked along the wall, carefully out of the templar's way, until he could turn in the door to the kitchen. He took off his outer robe, and hung it up on the back of the door, then fastened on a long apron to protect his clothes, and carefully began gathering things together; the big ceramic bowl from where it sat on the shelf. The crock of starter. Flour, salt, honey, oil, water. He measured starter into the bowl, then added flour and water into what remained in the crock, stirring it well before restoring it to its spot on the back of the counter, at the end near the oven, where it would stay warm most of the day.

He added honey and oil and water to the bowl, then began mixing in flour, a scoop of it at a time, one hand working the mess in the bowl while the other added flour. When the texture changed from a sticky liquid and began to stiffen, he added just a little sprinkle at a time, kneading and kneading, until it formed a smooth, firm ball, no longer at all sticky. A little more oil into the bowl, while he turned the ball of dough over and over, until it was glistening with a thin coating all over. That, too, over to the warm end of the counter. He washed his hands carefully, using water from the bucket he'd filled before going to bed the night before, then moistened a clean dish towel with water and draped it over the bowl of dough so it wouldn't dry out.

He cleaned the ashes from the day before out of the fireplace, then laid a small fire in the cleaned hearth, and set a kettle of water to heat for morning tea. Then he took out the heel of bread left from the day before, sliced it, and with the aid of a long toasting fork, carefully toasted each slice near the fire. He lined the slices up neatly on the counter, then went to the pantry, where he paused for a while. He had to make a _choice_ now, the templar having told him, when he was given breakfast-making duty, that he could use "whatever he felt like" when making breakfasts. A hard order to follow. It was simple enough to determine that his choice for this should be limited to things that went well on toast, like honey, jam, cheese, sliced meat and so on. But with the well-stock pantry and root cellar they had here, that still left him with a wide range of choices.

He picked up one of the small crocks from the shelf, of rough glazed clay, its top covered with a bit of waxed cloth tied on with string. Cool to the touch, and heavy. Strawberry, he knew, and remembered the sweet taste of it in his mouth, the rich red colour of it. But he had used that one yesterday, he remembered and put it back down, picking up a different crock. This one had a shallow groove spiralling up its side, a final flourish impressed on its surface by whomever had shaped the clay on a wheel. He traced part of the arc of the curve with his own finger. Apple jelly inside, a deep gold in colour. He remembered the taste of it, and felt his mouth filling with saliva at the thought of it. That one then.

He carried it out to the kitchen, and then fetched a chunk of crumbly white sharp-tasting cheese from the brine-filled crock of such in the cool room, and a handful of small smoked sausages from a fine-meshed net of them suspended from the rafters overhead, dry and peppery and each about the thinness and length of his longest finger. He set out two plates, of the same rough-glazed stoneware as the crocks, and divided the toasted bread between them, carefully spreading each slice with a spoonful of the jam. The cheese he chopped into smaller pieces, putting a pile of it on each plate, then the sausages. By then the kettle was coming to the boil. He hooked it off the fire, measured dry tea into each of a pair of large mugs, then, after wrapping his hand in the tail of his apron to protect it, lifted the kettle by the handle and poured water into each mug, being very careful not to splash.

He carried the mugs over to the counter, and set them down by the pair of plates, then put away the crock of jelly, and fetched a cloth to wipe clean the area of counter where he'd been working, brushing crumbs of toast and cheese into his hand and then fastidiously dusting his hand clean over the slop bucket by the door.

He took off the apron, and put it neatly away, then put back on his outer robe, making sure everything was fastened as it should be, the hem hanging neatly, before he walked over to the door to the dining room. Keran had finished his workout, and moved back the furniture that he had pushed aside to make room for it; he was leaning against the edge of one of the tables, looking lost in thought. He glanced around when Feynriel politely cleared his throat to draw attention to his presence.

"Breakfast ready?" he asked, and was on his feet and moving toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Feynriel nodded anyway, it was _correct_ to respond to questions. He stepped aside, out of the way, so that Keran could come through the door, and then followed him over to the counter. He waited while Keran added a spoonful of honey to his own mug of tea, then once the templar had picked up his plate and mug and headed off to the dining room with them, he picked up his own and followed.

They ate at the same table, because Keran had made it clear during their first few days here that he preferred it that way. Keran talked while he ate. Feynriel listened... not because the words were directed at him, because as far as he could tell, they only rarely were. But he listened anyway, because that seemed to be what Keran wanted – someone listening while he talked. Sometimes Keran did speak directly to him – orders, or a question – and he listened carefully, and answered more carefully still. Easy questions were ones that could be answered with a simple yes or no, like "did you finish the inventory of the root cellar" or "have you seen any signs of mice in the pantry". Harder ones were anything that required a choice, because then he had to think of _rules_, of good and not-good, right and not-right, and sort through the tangle of them in his head to try and arrive at the correct answer, the proper answer, the acceptable answer.

_Yes_ was usually the safest thing to say, especially if you were offered a choice and could not think how to resolve it. If it was not something that could be answered by _yes_, then there were other ways to choose, such as how your body reacted. Because even if you couldn't remember feelings like _enjoy_ and _dislike_, the body had a memory of its own, and ways of making it preferences known, like the flood of saliva in the mouth at the thought of a food that tasted good, or the automatic flinch away from the touch of something too hot. And if you could think of no other way to decide the answer, there were rules of thumb one could choose to follow, like "always take the first choice". What was important was that you always gave an answer, when you were given some choice, because not answering was not-good, and sometimes led to punishment. Sometimes that could be very bad, depending on who you failed to answer.

He had made that mistake only once, a short while after being made tranquil. Ser Alrik had given him a choice between two things, and they had both sounded not-good and possibly even not-right, and while he was still struggling in his head to decide which to choose, not sure at all how they fit in with what he'd been told were the rules of proper behaviour, Ser Alrik had become angry about his lack of response. And then the templar had done a third thing instead, a very painful thing, and before he finally left had told Feynriel that he must always answer promptly when asked a question, especially if it was Ser Alrik that asked. So that was obviously one of the _rules,_ and he was very careful to always follow it from then on.

When he talked to the other tranquil about it later, they had told him of the rules-of-thumb one could use, to make a decision when you couldn't tell which answer was most right, or as least the less wrong. Over time they taught him all the special rules, the ones not written down anywhere, but only passed around among the tranquil by word of mouth, only spoken of when no others were around, just themselves. And they told him about the templars it was safe to be alone with, and the ones it was not, and the little things to do or not do around the worst of them – like Ser Alrik – so that they were less likely to do hurtful things to one.

Eventually Keran finished his breakfast, said what he always did - "I'll be in the office, if you're not sure about anything come and find me there," and left. Feynriel finished his own breakfast, then took their plates and mugs to the kitchen, where he washed them using the bit of warm water left over in the kettle, dried them, and put them away. He looked around the room to make sure that everything was cleaned and put away where it belonged, that nothing was left too near to the embers of the small fire. That everything right and proper and complete, because that was the _correct_ thing to do.

As he walked to the workroom to begin that day's work, he thought about how it was good that Keran seemed to be one of the templars it was safe to be alone around, which no one had been sure of before. He wasn't known to have done hurtful things, like some were, but he also hadn't spent much time around the tranquil before, so it might have been that he simply hadn't had the chance yet. But so far he seemed like the safe kind of templar, which was good. Especially good since Feynriel had no choice but to be alone here with him all winter. Keran was also good at how he gave orders, almost always phrasing things so they were clear and easy to understand, and only occasionally did he ask questions that were hard to answer. He was... patient. And he treated Feynriel as if he expected him to be capable of thinking for himself, which not all templars or mages did.

Feynriel spent the rest of the morning in the workroom, stopping only when he heard a distant call, Keran summoning him to lunch. Soup today, made of the thinned-down leftovers of last night's stew, and bread, warm from the oven and spread with clarified butter. He ate slowly and carefully, so as not to drip any on himself.

"I need a hand this afternoon," Keran said toward the end of the meal, then paused to lick some butter off of his thumb. "Cut down a tree that was bigger around than I usually tackle yesterday, and then didn't cut all of it into short enough lengths to allow for the extra girth. Unless I want to chop through some of the logs a second time, and make twice as many trips, I need a second person to help with the hauling."

Feynriel nodded to indicate he was listening and had understood. Keran slurped at his soup, and frowned. "That robe won't be any good for tramping around in the forest in. Do you have something simpler – like leggings, and a shirt?"

"Yes," Feynriel said.

"Good. When you've finished eating, take the dishes to the the kitchen but leave them to wash later. Go change, and then come and find me – I'll be in the courtyard, making a second harness."

"Yes," he agreed, and finished his soup and bread, by which time Keran had already finished his own and left. He went to his room and removed the layers of his robe and underrobe, then put on the woollen leggings and quilted shirt he had to wear under them in winter for extra warmth, and his rarely-worn boots, then went to find Keran.

Keran smiled approvingly at him. "Good," he said, and nodded, then picked up a small coil of thick rope, one end hanging loose and knotted into a pair of loops. "Carry this. Be careful not to get it tangled on anything," he cautioned.

Feynriel nodded and took it from him. Keran picked up a second coil, hanging it over his shoulder with his arm threaded through the coil, the loops held bunched up in his hand. Feynriel immediately did the same.

"Good," Keran said, and smiled again, then turned and walked out of the trading post gate. Feynriel followed along behind, out the gate, a short distance along the dusty track that led toward the mountains, then off of it and into the forest, following a narrow cleared trail through the undergrowth.

They soon reached a small clearing, its margins dotted with the stumps of recently cut trees. Several sizable lengths of log lay in a broken line along the forest floor. Keran took his coil of rope and set it down, pulling loose one end – not the one with the knotted loops – and spent a couple of minutes fastening it securely around one end of the nearest log. He looked up and held out one hand. "Give me yours." In a short time the templar had both ropes attached to the log. He picked up one set of paired loops and backed a few feet away from the log, the rope uncoiling neatly to hang straight from his hands to the log. "Watch how I put this on," he told Feynriel.

He turned his back to the log, then put his head and one arm through one of the loops, so it ran over one shoulder and under the opposite arm, then repeated that with his other arm, so the loops crossed each other over his chest, the knot where they joined together in back of him. He looked over his shoulder at Feynriel. "Put yours on too," he said.

Feynriel nodded and did as told. The rope he had was a few feet longer, he noticed, so that when he backed away from the log he ended up in front of where Keran stood, before turning his back to both man and log and slipping on the two loops.

"That's right," Keran said, voice warm with approval. "All right. Walk back the way we came as far as you can, until the rope is tight. Yes, right there. Look at me again for a moment... See how I have my hands pulling the loops away from my neck? Do that, too. It makes it easier to pull without hurting yourself. Okay, when I say to, lean hard into the harness. I'll be pulling on mine too, and with luck we'll get this log going without too much difficulty. Once it's moving we want to keep moving without stopping until we get back to the outpost, so unless I tell you to stop, you need to keep pulling. Do you understand?"

Feynriel thought a moment, then nodded. "Yes," he said.

"Good. All right. Pull on three. One, two, _three_."

Feynriel leaned hard into the harness, feet digging into the ground. He heard Keran grunt, then the log lurched forward a little and he almost fell over from the sudden loss of tension in the rope. By the time he regained his balance, the log had stopped moving.

"Careful there!" Keran exclaimed. "Pull again. Be ready for it to move this time, okay?"

"Yes," he said. And pulled. And kept his feet this time, walking toward the place where they'd entered the small clearing, the rope digging into him a little painfully even through the quilted shirt. It was hard work, and they had a couple of unexpected stops when the end of the log hung up on something and had to be freed by Keran before they resumed pulling. It was easier once they reached the smooth, hard-packed surface of the road back to the fort, the log sliding along the dusty surface with comparative ease. They dragged it all the way back to the post, and around back of the building to where the chopping block and wood pile were.

"Good job," Keran said, with a wide smile. "Rest a minute while I untie the ropes, then we'll go back for the next one."

Feynriel nodded, and stood quietly while Keran unfastened the ropes. "Coil that," the man said, gesturing to Feynriel's rope while he busied himself coiling up his own. Then they walked back to the clearing, and did the whole thing over again. And again, until all the lengths of log – five of them in total – had been hauled back to the yard. They coiled up the ropes a final time, then Keran looked up at the sky and stretched. "Still a little daylight left," he noted. "You. Sit down and rest," he said, looking at Feynriel and waving off to one side. "Not much you could get done indoors before it's time to eat anyway."

Feynriel moved off to the side, out of Keran's way, and sat down near the kitchen door, his back against the wall. He was in sunlight there, and could feel the warmth of it on his skin. Sitting quietly in the sunlight was, he decided a small goodness. He watched as Keran stripped off his own shirt, fetched the long-handled axe from the shed, then began to cut one of the logs into shorter lengths.

He could remember doing that, when he was free. When he'd lived briefly among the Dalish, before his dreams changed, before the templars came and Hawke let them take him away. He remembered the way it felt to lift the axe, to let it fall, the impact of sharp blade into hard wood, chips of wood flying away from where it hit. The stretch and pull of muscles, the soreness afterwards. The scent of the fresh-cut wood, how every kind of tree had its own unique smell.

He watched Keran chopping, watched the way it made the muscles in his bare back shift and move, compress into bulges or stretch out smooth and sleek under the skin. Elves looked a little different than that, he knew, their bodies naturally sleeker and smoother, without as many bulges. He wondered what his own had looked like, doing that. Smooth like an elf, or bulgy like a human? Not something he could ever know, not being able to see his own back while he worked.

After a while Keran stopped, having cut the first log into short enough pieces to split for firewood. He walked over, leaned the axe against the wall, and picked up his shirt, using it to wipe his sweaty face dry. "That's hard work," he said.

"Yes," Feynriel agreed.

Keran gave him a questioning look. "You've chopped wood before?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Didn't think mages did much real work," Keran said.

Not a question, so Feynriel didn't say anything in response, just continued listening, watching Keran attentively.

"Show me," Keran said suddenly, picking up the axe, and holding it by the handle just above the head, extended the end of it out towards Feynriel. "Split up some of that wood into billets."

Feynriel rose and took it in hand. He handled it carefully as he shifted his grip to hold it properly, knowing axes were dangerous tools. He walked over to where Keran had been working, and leaned the axe against the chopping block, then hefted one of the lengths of wood up on top of the block. He started to pick up the axe again, then thought of how the heavy quilted shirt he was wearing would likely bind and catch when he was trying to swing it, and paused to take it off, carrying it back over to set down beside the door.

Keran was leaning against the side of the building, arms folded across his chest, watching. But it was not a threatening or angry look on his face, just a watchful, curious one. Feynriel walked back over, picked up the axe, took a proper grip on it, and set his feet carefully shoulder-width apart, scuffing them each against the ground to make sure his footing was firm. He set the axe head edge-down on the length of wood, adjusted his grip slightly, then in one smooth movement hefted the axe up over his shoulder, his upper hand sliding closer to the head as he did so, so it wouldn't fall off of true to either side, and then swung it down again, hand sliding back down the handle, keeping his eyes firmly on the spot where he'd rested the axe head a moment before, aiming for it.

The axe sank into the surface with a loud _thwack_, the log splitting down half of its length before the head jammed, wedged firmly into the wood. He heft the axe again, grunting as the log lifted with it, raising it just a short distance off the chopping block before letting it drop down again, the weight of the wood adding to the force with which it slammed down. The wood split the rest of the way, the two halves falling to either of the block. He set down the axe, and bent down to lift one of the halves back on top of the block.

"You _do_ know what you're doing," Keran said approvingly.

"Yes," Feynriel agreed calmly, and kept working. The wood split much easier now that it had been halved, needing only one blow to sheer off each billet of wood. He quickly reduced the first length of wood into firewood.

"Good enough," Keran said. "It's getting dark now anyway - we should go eat. But first I'll get that stacked to dry," he added, and walked over, crouching down to gather up an armful of wood. "You can put the axe away in the shed."

Feynriel nodded, and did so. He could feel the tiredness of his body from all the hard work that day – legs, back, shoulders and arms all a little sore from it. He suspected he would be a lot sore later.

They retrieved their shirts and went back indoors. The kitchen was warm and full of good smells from the covered pot hanging over the coals in the grate. Keran had made something involving white beans, bite-sized pieces of smoked sausage, and duck – the latter preserved in its own fat – cooked together with herbs, wine and onions. It was very rich in flavour and taste, the beans glistening with a thin coating of oily liquid. Feynriel was hungry enough to take a second helping, while Keran ate two very large servings of it.

Keran sighed and sat back in his chair, patting his stomach when he was done. "That turned out even better than I thought it would," he said, then smiled at Feynriel. "Sore from all the work?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Me, too. Tell you what, I'll go start the boiler heating for a bath for the two of us while you get the kitchen cleaned up. We could both use one anyway. Okay?"

Feynriel nodded. "Yes."

It was good to have a proper bath again, the heat soaking some of the soreness out of tired muscles. The heat and rubbing with soap and being clean everywhere afterwards was something that was a small goodness, like eating something tasty or sitting quietly in the sunlight or touching yourself at night. The body approved.

He lay awake only a very short time before going to sleep that night. And then it was morning again, with nothing at all in between the two points. No dreams. Just lying awake, and then drifting a little, and then suddenly waking up again, knowing you had slept.


	6. Free Advice

Keran set Feynriel to chopping wood the next afternoon, while he himself cut down trees and hauled the logs back. There'd be plenty of time for indoor work over the slow winter months; for now, he was more concerned that they have enough wood to get through the coming winter. So while they still followed their initial routine in the mornings, afternoons they both worked on readying the post for winter.

It went much faster with the pair of them working, and the size of the wood pile was soon more than doubled over what had been there when they first arrived. Keran hoped it would be enough wood; he had tried calculating how much they'd need, but his only reference was how much they used _now_, and that would change once the cold weather set in and they had to burn wood for heat, not just cooking. And some woods burned faster than others, and dry well-seasoned wood at a different rate than fresh-cut, but... well, he'd just have to hope it was enough. And keep gathering as long as the weather held clear enough for it; better to cut too much wood than not enough, he thought.

It was already getting noticeably cold at night, with heavy frosts coating everything in the morning. The trees, which had been in leaf still but changing colours when they arrived had now lost all their leaves, just the evergreens still keeping their more durable coats of green. The mountains to the north were frequently wrapped in clouds, and by the few glimpses he got of the peaks on clearer days, the winter snows were already setting in up in the heights, and would likely arrive here soon as well. It wasn't quite cold enough yet to require them to light fires at night, be he was thankful for the good wool blankets on his bed.

He was hauling a log back along the road late one afternoon when another group of visitors appeared, having come south over the pass. He heard them first, coming up from behind as they were, and stopped to turn and wait for them to catch up, raising a hand in greeting as they drew near. No carts in this group, he saw, as the previous group going north had used, but instead a long string of pack mules.

One of the merchants – the leader of the group, he'd assume – kneed his horse forward a little, eyeing Keran shrewdly. "Good afternoon," he said, and dipped a shallow bow at Keran from horseback. "You'd be the templar overwintering at the post this year?" he asked, leaning on his saddlebow.

"Yes – Ser Keran," he introduced himself.

The man nodded. "Jarvis Whiskrell, out of Ostwick. We'll be wanting to rent the room overnight, and likely to do a little trading as well; for supplies if nothing else."

"Of course," Keran said. "Go ahead and get your people moved in, I've got this to finish with," he gestured at the log he was harnessed to. "We can settle for the room once I get back and have had a chance to clean up," he added, smiling.

The merchant smiled back and nodded. "Sounds good. I'll see you at the post," he said, and he and his group continued on ahead.

By the time he reached the fortified outpost, the mules had all been relieved of their burdens and turned out in the meadows around it and were browsing for anything still edible among the frost-killed grass. Jarvis came out of the building as Keran was dragging the log around to the back, and followed along after him.

"Good to see a man doing hard work," the merchant said approvingly, then grinned. "Especially when that man isn't _me_." Then he spotted Feynriel at work, and his eyebrows rose. "You trust one of 'em tranquil to handle an axe?" he asked, sounding surprised.

Keran smiled and shrugged. "Sure, why not? He's tranquil, not _simple_ – he knows it's sharp. And he knows how to handle it. Does a better job at the chopping than I do, actually, and unlike me he doesn't get distracted from what he's doing. Probably less likely to cut a chunk out of himself than I am. Anyway, it makes the work go a lot faster, both of us working on it. We've more than doubled the size of the wood pile that was here," he added a touch proudly, nodding to the neatly stacked wood in the shed.

"_Hrumph_... I thought it looked like that pair here when I passed through this summer weren't doing much work around the place," the merchant said, as he frowned in the direction of the shed. "You should have that shed filled right to the door to be sure of having enough for the winter – and that would be of good seasoned wood, not this green stuff," he added.

Keran groaned. "Maker. I hope the snows hold off long enough."

"Likely not – we almost got caught by the first storms up in the pass. Anyone trying to come through behind us likely _did_ get caught, and Maker only knows if they'll get out again. The snows will be starting down here soon too, within another week I'd guess. It won't be staying snow for another week or two beyond that, but the melting will make hauling even harder. I'd suggest you boys concentrate on hauling logs; you can stack 'em up for now, and then split 'em later."

Keran nodded slowly. "I think I'll take that advice," he said. "It makes good sense. Thank you."

The merchant smiled and nodded. "Advice is always free. Not everyone takes it, of course."

Keran nodded again, the looked at the angle of the sun. Normally he and Feynriel would have kept working for another hour or so, but with all these people here – well, he might as well call an end now, and get the merchant's payment for the room dealt with, and so on. "That's enough for today, Feynriel, he called out when the tranquil had put the axe down again. "Put the axe and ropes away and get the wood stacked, and then you can go back indoors and rest until it's time for dinner." He turned back to the merchant and smiled at him. "Give me a few minutes to go wash and change, and then we can take care of your business, ser."

The merchant nodded, and left. Feynriel picked up the axe again, walking off to put it away in the shed. Keran finished stripping off his rope harness, untied it from the log, and coiled it up, handing it to Feynriel when he returned, before turning away and going back indoors. In his room he sponged off with a little water to remove the worst of the sweat and wood dust, then changed to less-stained clothing and headed downstairs. The merchant and his people were in the dining hall, eating a cold meal of their own rations, though they had made use of the fire cooking Keran and Feynriel's meal to heat water for tea. Jarvis quickly rose to his feet, and followed Keran off to his office.

They spent most of an hour in the dickering, while the merchant decided which of the supplies and goods he wanted from those on hand, and Keran looked up prices in the ledgers and wrote out a list of everything, then totalled it up, the merchant making an identical list for his own records in turn. They compared them at the end, to be sure they matched, then the merchant dug out his purse and handed over the requisite coin, and they both marked their signatures on both lists.

"I do like dealing with the chantry posts, even if there is no dickering," the merchant said, as they shook hands to formally close the deal afterwards. "I might be able to get things a few coins cheaper if I could dicker, but it likely wouldn't be all in one place as conveniently as this. Nor include those fancy geegaws the circles make for sale. Good doing business with you, ser Keran."

"And you, ser Jarvis," Keran said.

After that the merchant gathered some of his people, and with them as porters the goods he'd purchased were soon moved out of the storage rooms and into a pile in the dining hall. Only once that was done was Keran finally able to go have his own supper. He was glad he'd called an early end to the wood cutting; it was well after the time he'd normally have eaten. He had to find Feynriel first to let him know it was time to eat. The tranquil was in his room, sitting motionless on the edge of his cot, which Keran supposed was how the tranquil had interpreted his order of "rest until dinner".

The merchant and his people were still occupying the dining room, busy sorting the purchases and bundling them into packs for the next day's travel. The merchant invited himself to join them at table, wanting to gossip it turned out. Keran was able to tell him the most recent news he'd heard out of Kirkwall – weeks old by now – and hear similarly well-aged word out of the north from the man in turn. After he'd eaten, and sent Feynriel off with the dishes to take care of the cleaning up, he stayed at the table, drinking ale with the merchant – who'd had his people broach a small cask of it since they'd be sleeping safely indoors tonight – and still talking. It ended up being quite late in the evening before the merchant finally rose, bade Keran a good-night, and rounded up his people, heading upstairs to the attic room for sleep.

Keran rubbed tiredly at his eyes, and was glad to finally head off to his own bed. Soft snores were already coming from the tranquil's room, Feynriel having finished his chores and gone to bed at least an hour earlier. As he curled up in his own bed, Keran found himself thinking how much he'd enjoyed talking with the merchant, and not looking forward to the long winter months with just Feynriel for company. If there was one thing the tranquil didn't do much of, it was talk.


	7. Hard Work

After thinking over the merchant's advice, Keran put all other non-essential work on hold, and put both himself and Feynriel to gathering in wood. He was better at hauling than the tranquil was, but he wasn't entirely sure he could trust the man with the dangerous job of felling trees, especially when careful questioning showed that Feynriel had no experience with felling, just with chopping. So while Keran spent the day cutting down several trees, and chopping them into logs small enough for one man to haul, Feynriel dragged the resultant logs back to the outpost.

They were both sore and tired from the extra work when they returned home at the end of the day, even more-so once they'd stacked the logs so they could dry properly, making the start of a square pile of criss-crossed layers, set on two of the larger logs to keep it up off the ground and allow the air to circulate better. It was only when they went indoors that Keran realized he hadn't put anything to cook for their supper, nor had they baked bread that day. Breakfast had used up the bread from the day before – lunch had been hard tack and sausage, eaten at the clearing. He groaned.

"Feynriel – go fill the boiler and start it warming while I make supper," he said tiredly, then headed off to the pantry to see what he felt like cooking. "Come back to the kitchen once it's lit."

Something simple, he decided. Simple, and comforting. Porridge. Not the thin, salty greyish gruel that was served up in the templar dining hall some mornings, but _real_ porridge. He set water on to heat, and added a little bit of his precious seasonings – cloves, cinnamon, and a grating of nutmeg – then once the water started to boil, sifted in handfuls of oats, stirring well after each addition so there'd be no lumps. He also added a handful of raisins, some chopped dried apple, and a good-sized dollop of maple syrup, then let it simmer, stirring the pot regularly. It didn't take long to cook; the porridge was ready to eat by the time Feynriel returned. They ate in the kitchen, sitting on stools at the work table, and were hungry enough that they scraped the pot clean between the two of them. "Just leave it all to clean up tomorrow," Keran told Feynriel when the other man started to carry everything toward the sink. "Let's go have our bath."

They had both been putting on condition with the daily workout from cutting wood over the last couple of weeks, Keran noticed as they were stripping down. Feynriel's shirt was noticeably tight across the shoulders, and the musculature under it better-defined than it had been the first time the pair of them had shared a bath. There had been a softness to his shape, a sleekness, that was almost entirely gone now. His shoulders were broader, his thighs more muscular, his stomach flatter. Keran's own body reflected similar changes, though on a lesser scale, as he'd already been pretty muscular from the exercise of wearing heavy armour and working with sword and shield for so many years. Swinging an axe did use somewhat different combinations of muscles though, different movements, and he could feel the soreness of having worked hard all day as he climbed into the bath.

Feynriel was apparently more than a little sore as well – understandable, considering he hadn't been in as good shape as Keran was to start with. As the tranquil lowered himself into the water, his face actually left its usual calm blankness briefly, a brief grimace of pain twisting it. The grimace vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, but seeing it at all startled Keran. He hadn't realized that the tranquil could have real expressions; he'd only ever seen them either blank-faced, or wearing the slight smile that some of them adopted. Though he supposed it made sense – pain was a physical feeling, not an emotional one, and there was no reason why they wouldn't still feel pain, Or pleasure, come to that. They certainly felt hunger, got tired...

He did find himself wondering just how much pain Feynriel had to be in for it to show, as it just had. He'd seen the tranquil be visibly sore before, after heavy work, but apart from him moving slowly and stiffly there had been no sign of it. Certainly not in his expression. He kept half an eye on him as the two of them bathed, and could tell by the way the man was moving that he was definitely stiff and sore – possibly even in real pain. He began to worry a little – if Feynriel injured himself, would he even think to stop working, or to mention it to Keran? Or would be keep on working, despite injury. Just the thought of it made Keran feel slightly ill. He'd always dismissed stories of tranquil working themselves to death as just stories, but... what if there was a kernel of truth to the tales?

"Feynriel – are you sore?" he asked. "You look stiff."

"Yes," the man answered, the same unvarying 'yes' with which he answered most questions.

Keran frowned. "How sore – just stiff from too much work, or are you sore because you hurt yourself?"

Feynriel paused, face blanking in that way that seemed to happen when he was thinking – even more still and empty than his usual expression. When some time passed without him answering, Keran tried rephrasing the question. "Feynriel – do you hurt? Are you injured?"

A silence. "I hurt," Feynriel agreed. "I do not believe I am injured."

"Just very sore?" Keran asked, feeling a little relieved.

"Yes."

"All right," he said, and sighed silently in relief. "Do you know what to do if you get injured?"

"Yes. Stop working, and tell someone that I am hurt," Feynriel answered promptly.

Keran smiled slightly. It sounded like Feynriel was repeating a rule he'd been told. Though he still worried a little – he and Feynriel often worked some distance apart. What if the tranquil injured himself, and then made the injury worse trying to get to Keran to tell him that he was injured? He ended up spending most of the bath asking questions and working out answers with Feynriel, until he was reasonably satisfied that the tranquil knew suitable things to do in any of the most likely emergencies that might befall him here.

He still didn't like how stiffly Feynriel was moving when they were getting out of the tub though, especially since the heat of the bath should have eased a lot of the soreness already. He made the other man go through a series of simple bends and stretches, and decided it was his back that was the problem. When he carefully felt Feynriel's lower back – the first time he'd ever laid hands on him for any reason, he was vaguely aware – he could feel the tenseness in the muscles there, and had some idea of just how painful that could be from his own experience. It made sense to him that it was the tranquil's back that was the problem; dragging logs put an entirely different strain on the back and shoulders than chopping wood did, so Feynriel had spent the day exercising an entirely different set of muscles than he had until now, or at least exercising some of them in different ways.

"Go get ready for bed, but don't go to bed yet," he told Feynriel, then headed to his own room. He pulled on his own nightclothes, then got out the container of warming salve that he used when he had a strained muscle or cramp, and went to the tranquil's room. Feynriel was standing by his bed, dressed in his nightshirt and a rather baggy pair of leggings, a lit candle-end on one of the tables the only light.

Keran had him pull the bedding down to the foot of the bed, then lay face-down on it. He pulled up the back of Feynriel's voluminous nightshirt, then scooped out some of the salve and began working it into Feynriel's lower back, working his way upwards and outwards, firmly massaging the knotted muscles. It was something he'd learned how to do pretty much out of necessity while still a trainee – you couldn't massage your own sore back, and the trainees traded the favour of such massages back and forth.

He worked his way up and down Feynriel's back, feeling the knots gradually loosen under his hands. He could feel the other man relaxing. And smiled, almost laughing aloud, when Feynriel started to snore softly. He decided to take that as a sign that he'd done a thorough enough job on his back, and carefully rose to his feet, shaking out his own hands and wrists. He carefully tugged Feynriel's nightshirt back down, then pulled the bedding up over him, frowning when he noticed the tranquil had nothing but a single sheet and blanket to cover him. He must be half-freezing at night, as cold as it had been lately! And cold would undo whatever good the massage had done.

He stripped the blankets off the other two cots, and added them over top of the sleeping man. Feynriel didn't stir at all; he was clearly deeply asleep. Keran pinched out the candle, and went back to his own room.


	8. Winter Arrives

The merchant had been right – they saw their first snowfall before the week was out. Thankfully it was just a light dusting, and neither impeded their wood-hauling while it was there, nor made the ground muddy when it melted away within a few hours. But it a definite sign of things to come, and the pair of them worked as hard as they could, rising before dawn each day to breakfast, then walking to the clearing together by lantern light, so that they could begin work the moment it got light enough that Keran could use an axe safely. They worked until dusk each day, with only a brief stop for lunch, then ate dinner, and slept.

Keran gave Feynriel a massage each night, as much to ease himself as the tranquil. After the first few days it likely wasn't needed any more – Feynriel was no longer looking stiff or sore any more, having gotten used to the strenuous work they were doing – but it had become a soothing part of their current routine, and it certainly did no harm to continue with it. He'd also, on the day after that first massage, made sure to check that Feynriel was pulling and lifting things safely, using the strength of his legs more than his back. Feynriel had been less sore the second night, and Keran was sure at least some of that was due to the man being more careful to not strain his back.

Not quite two weeks after that last merchant had come south, they had their first heavy snowfall. It started while they were eating lunch in the clearing, a sudden swirl of large fluffy snowflakes out of a sky that had been heavily overcast all morning, accompanied by a gust of noticeably colder wind. Hoping it would just be a short-lived snow squall, Keran sent Feynriel off to the outpost with another log, and continued chopping the tree he'd downed shortly before lunch into logs small enough to be dragged. The snow was coming down heavily enough that by the time Feynriel returned for a second section, the ground had disappeared beneath a coat of white. Keran told him to bring the second harness with him when he returned, and kept working. He'd hoped to see Feynriel take away a few more logs before he had to call an end to the day's work, but the snowfall was getting worse, the light dimming and visibility dropping fast; when Feynriel returned with both harnesses, he decided that it was better to be safe than sorry, and they started back together, each of them dragging a log.

It was a white-out before they reached the post; had it not been for the faint path left in the snow from Feynriel's previous trips, they could easily have ended up wandering lost in it, Keran realized with a chill. And also felt a chill from the wind, which was even worse out in the open than it had been in the clearing, and was quickly changing from cold to bitterly cold. He quickly untied the ropes, put them and the axe away inside the shed, then loaded Feynriel's arms with wood and sent him indoors, grabbing an armful himself before heading inside as well. It was cold in the outpost, and quiet apart from the sounds of their own breathing and the wind howling outside. They were both shivering, Keran realized.

"Go get the boiler filled and started, then come back here," he tiredly commanded the tranquil, then set to building a small fire in the kitchen fireplace, put water on for tea, and while it heated began throwing together a dinner that could cook while they warmed up and washed. Water, a small ham, some hastily scrubbed and peeled potatoes, turnip, parsnips, onions, carrots, and cabbage, some seasonings – bay leaf, dried mustard seed, cloves, a few peppercorns. Feynriel returned while he was still adding things to the pot, and he had the man make the tea while he finished. They drank their tea standing up in the kitchen, well sweetened with honey and with some of Keran's precious spiced cookies, the heat and the sugary treat helping them to get past the worst of their chill.

They bathed, taking their time, then redressed in warmer clothing; the temperature was dropping too fast to make their nightclothes comfortable outside of a well-layered bed. They'd need to have a fire tonight, Keran decided, and laid one ready in the small fireplace in his room. It was only when he went to fetch Feynriel from the tranquil quarters that he found himself thinking what an unnecessary waste of wood it would be to heat two rooms tonight when only one needed to be warm. And Feynriel would sleep warmer in the second bed in Keran's room than he would in the less well-equipped tranquil quarters, too. It was easy enough to convince the man to move – just a simple order to gather his things together and move them into Keran's room. No argument needed; the tranquil obeyed with the same expressionless alacrity that he used when following any order.

After seeing his things put away, they went down to the kitchen together, where the boiled dinner was simmering away, filling the room with good smells. It was only mid-afternoon, but as dark outside as evening, snow visibly piling up on the windowsills. After some thought, Keran set Feynriel to check each room in the post, to make sure windows were properly closed and chimney flues shut in all of the uninhabited rooms, and to close the doors to all the rooms they didn't use, so whatever warmth their fires gave off wouldn't be wasted on empty rooms.

He, in the meantime, went back to his room, and pulled on an extra layer of warm clothing, then made several trips to the shed and back, bringing a good supply of wood indoors; more than enough to see them through the remainder of the day, overnight, and into the next day. He had more tea when he was done, then went to find where Feynriel had gotten to.

The tranquil was emptying the bath, scooping out the water a bucketful at a time to pour down the drain in one corner of the room. Keran left him to it, after making sure he knew to return to the kitchen once he'd finished, then went back to the kitchen himself. It was noticeably chilly in the rest of the post compared to the kitchen, and he was unsurprised to see Feynriel looking chilled again by the time the tranquil returned. He wordlessly handed him another mug of sweetened tea, and the pair of them sat at the work table, sipping tea, Keran watching the storm outside, Feynriel just staring off into space.

"I wonder how deep this snow will get before it stops," Keran said after a while. "And if it'll stay or melt again." There was no response from Feynriel; not that he'd expected one, it not being a direct question. "Are you cold?" he asked the man, looking over at him.

"No," Feynriel answered, and sipped at his tea.

Keran smiled slightly. Tranquil were not the greatest conversationalists in the world. But at least it was better than being here completely alone, with nothing but the sound of the rising wind outside for company.

Supper was good, warming and filling. Figuring there was a good chance they'd be staying close to the outpost tomorrow as well, Keran set some beans to soak overnight, and told Feynriel he was to make bread dough again the next morning. Then the pair of them retired to bed, there being no reason to stay up and waste candles or lamp-oil.

The bedroom was chilly, but warmed quickly once the door was closed and the fire lit. Keran snuggled into his blankets, shivering a little until his body heat and the fire warmed them through. Feynriel was already asleep by then, as rolled up in his own sheets and blankets as Keran was. He lay awake awhile, listening to the soft snoring from the other bed, the popping of the fire, the hiss of snow against the building, and the wind gradually dying away.

* * *

><p>The snow and wind stopped sometime before morning, but the cold lingered; it was clear this snow would not be melting away today. They had a leisurely breakfast, then bundled up warmly and went outside to pile up the remaining unstacked logs. Then Feynriel split more mood while Keran carried loads inside, making sure they had a big enough supply indoors to last several days if needed. He made sure to call Feynriel in to warm up for a while, the two of them sharing a pot of tea, then while Feynriel returned to chopping he set the beans to cooking for their dinner that evening, and shaped the bread. Then he went outside, relieved Feynriel at chopping, and set the tranquil to stacking the freshly chopped wood in the shed.<p>

By the time he judged the bread was likely ready to go into the oven, they were both chilled from working outside, so he called an end to outside work for the day, and they returned indoors. Feynriel stood near the fire, warming up, while Keran got the bread into the oven and then started on preparations for lunch. They had leftovers of the boiled dinner from the night before, and the freshly baked bread.

The afternoon was spent in indoor work, Feynriel resuming his work in the tranquil workroom that he hadn't touched in the past two weeks, while Keran caught up on office work. Once he ran out of things to do there he made a round of the building, checking to see if there was any repairs that still needed doing. Apart from stuffing rags into a small gap that had opened between the wall and a window frame in one room he found nothing out of order. With nothing better to do, he refilled the boiler in the bathing chamber; too soon to have another hot bath, but at least it would be ready to heat when they did want one.

Supper was baked beans and buttered bread. It was a quiet meal, Keran not being in the mood to talk aloud as he so often did, and Feynriel never having been inclined to talk without prompting. Keran did find himself wondering if Feynriel had always been like that, or if he'd been equally quiet even before being made tranquil. He found himself wondering what the other man's past was; he knew very little about him, he realized, other than that he'd been involved with Hawke at some point, and had later been recovered from the Dalish with the man's help, then made tranquil.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to ask. He had little doubt that Feynriel would have answered any direct questions put to him about it, and yet... the fact that he couldn't even _feel_ like refusing to reveal what might otherwise have been deeply personal information was unsettling. As if it would be some kind of trespass to ask him direct questions about his past, when he was no longer capable of not wanting to answer.

Better to leave him whatever little privacy and dignity he might have left, Keran decided. Just because _he_ was curious did not justify prying into the other man's past.


	9. Intricate Patterns

Feynriel woke. It was warm in bed, with the layers of sheets and blankets over him, the thickly-stuffed straw tick under him. The fire was down to little more than a few last coals in a bed of ashes; the window thick with frost. It would be a while yet until the sun rose, he knew, but the pressure in his bladder told him it was time to get up and go make breakfast. So he sat up, pushing the bedding aside, and rose. The floor was cold, but he ignored that as he made his bed, stripped off his night clothes, and dressed. He went into the bathing chamber and used the earth closet there, sprinkling in a scoop of ashes when he was done, washed his hands – he had to break the skim of ice in the pitcher to do so – then headed off to the kitchen.

It was very cold in the kitchen, the fire having gone out entirely some time in the night, cold drafts finding their way in around the edges of the door and the two windows. He cleaned out the ashes, and laid a new fire, then stood and warmed himself by it for a while before starting on his morning chores. The bread starter was stiff and cold, and had to be left near the fire – but not too near – to warm up while he put on water for tea, and gathered ingredients for breakfast.

They'd had ham again as part of their dinner their the night before. He cut the leftovers up in small cubes, and diced some bacon and potatoes and onions as well, and fried them all up together, making a rather greasy but good-tasting hash. He fried slices of yesterday's bread in the drippings. Keran came in when it was almost ready, and made the tea for both of them. They ate in the kitchen, as they had been doing since the snows came, it being warmer in there. After the meal Keran went into the cold dining hall to do his morning exercises, while Feynriel cleaned up from breakfast and made the bread dough, setting the covered bowl of it on the mantle to rise, the counter being too cold now.

The two of them dressed warmly, and went outside, spending some time on chopping up several of the logs they'd gathered in before the snows came. There'd been more snow in the night; they had to clear it away from around the chopping block before they could set to work. Feynriel was extra-careful about how he set his feet before he started chopping; sometimes it was icy underfoot, and slipping while using the axe would be very bad.

The clouds thinned and the sun came out while they were working. It made everything very bright, and there was a slight breeze, which made it even colder than when the clouds had been there. Feynriel blinked, and blinked again, the glare making his eyes water. He set down the axe, and tried to dry his eyes, but they started running again right away.

"Enough for today," Keran said, patting him on one shoulder. "Put the axe away, and go back indoors."

He nodded, and did as told. It was good to be back inside. His eyes stopped watering, though his skin felt strange as it warmed again. An odd prickly feeling, almost itchy. His hands had turned bright red. Keran came back inside as well, and they sat down and drank tea together, then carried wood in, restocking the piles in the kitchen, workroom, office, and bedroom. They had done so most days since the snow had come, except when it was storming outside; enough wood always indoors so that they'd have enough even if they couldn't go outside for a few days, Keran had said.

Once they had warmed up again after finishing that, Feynriel went to the workroom, and lit the fire there, then set to work. There was nothing that needed maintenance right now, so he made something new, his hands moving surely, steadily, as they carved precise lines in the surface of a dagger. He filled the tiny grooves with lyrium melted in a small crucible over a very hot flame. He was very careful when he worked with lyrium, always hanging a sign on the door first that let Keran know not to enter carelessly. Lyrium was dangerous; not as bad for the tranquil, whom it couldn't affect much any more, but it was still a poison. He was very careful not to breathe the fumes as he worked with it. Careful, too, not to handle it with bare skin, wearing thin leather gloves as he worked. Once the dagger was finished and polished and put away again, ready for someone to enchant, he cleaned up. He wiped down the workbench and everything nearby very carefully and thoroughly with a moistened cloth to make sure any tiny particles of lyrium dust were removed. A few particles might not hurt anyone, but if you didn't clean up each time, they might accumulate, and _that_ could be dangerous. So he always cleaned, after every time he worked with it. And the crucible of lyrium, along with the special tools for working with lyrium, were all locked away in a vault set in the floor, when not in use.

Keran was leaning against the wall in the hallway outside when he went to remove the sign. "Lunch is ready," the man said, and left. Feynriel put the sign away, then followed him downstairs. They ate lunch; the bread – heavier in winter, not rising as well in the cold – toasted and topped with melted cheese, and soup made of more of the leftover ham, potatoes, and onions.

After lunch Feynriel returned to the workroom. He settled down at a table, with pens and brushes and coloured inks, glue and gilt, and a large sheet of vellum, carefully pinned to the work surface. A quote from the Canticles was written on it, and the design for the accompanying illumination lightly sketched in around it. Curving lines to frame it, filled with hills and mountains, forests, animals, people, a woman burning in a fire while a standing man thrust a sword through her, at one side of it, and at the other side the same woman, raising her hand in benediction, the sword hanging forgotten in her other hand, the man kneeling before her. Andraste and Hessarian, he knew. He did not bother reading the passage, but set to work with inks and brushes, carefully flooding different areas with bright colour, none of the areas adjacent to each other. It would be the work of many days to colour it all in, he knew, each area needing to dry thoroughly before the one next to it could be filled, so the colours wouldn't bleed together, and then additional shading done over top of that, and gilding, and the final tracing in dark ink of all the edges. And then it would be framed, and sold for a lot of gold, so that someone could hang it on their wall, and admire it, or ignore it, or pray before it, depending on who bought it and why.

He worked until his hands tired, then went down to the kitchen and had tea, knowing that tired hands might shake and spoil the work. And then he worked on it a while longer, and when his hands tired again, stopped work on it for the day. There was not enough time left in the day to start a third project, and so he closed up the workroom, and went down to the kitchen, took out cleaning supplies, and wandered around the building, finding things that needed cleaning and dealing with them, until Keran called him for dinner.

It was stew tonight, made of dried beef chopped in pieces, potatoes, carrots, and beer, with dumplings. The long slow cooking had softened the beef, but it was still chewier than a stew made of fresh meat would have been. But good, and tasty, and there was very little leftover afterwards to put aside for use in tomorrow's lunch.

They cleaned up the kitchen together, as they had resumed doing since the snows came. And then they went to bed.

Usually Feynriel went to sleep quickly, but tonight he could not. He lay awake instead, listening to Keran toss and turn and mutter to himself before finally sleeping, then lay awake longer, listening to the quiet. It was very quiet here, compared to everywhere he could ever remember living. The alienage, with his mother, had always been noisy, even in the middle of the night, as the elves who worked on different shifts at the foundry, or the docks, or elsewhere came and went. The Dalish had been noisy at night too, often sitting up until late, singing or dancing or telling stories, and even once they retired, there had been the night noises, of couples together in their aravels or in the shadowed woods nearby, of snoring, or children having nightmares, the guards talking quietly as they patrolled outside, all the sounds of community life together.

The Gallows, too, had been full of noise. Snores. Coughs. Cries. The pacing of guards in the halls. Distant screams, sometimes. The faint background noises of the city, so close and yet so far across the harbour. Even the tranquil dormitory had its own noises, the sounds of so many people living together in such a small space, the quiet murmur of talk each night after lights-out as first one tranquil than another would speak up about things they had done that day, or seen, as they shared news about the templars, the mages, the city. They talked it all over, all of them, lying there awake in darkness, making sense of things, figuring out rules. _Remembering_, so that even after one of them disappeared, as they sometimes did – taken elsewhere, or sometimes dead – there was still someone who knew their story, where they had come from, what they had done, what had been done to them and by whom. It was a shared history, the stories that they passed around in the darkness each night.

They shared beds sometimes too, shared touches, keeping their sounds quiet as they shared what small goodness they could still have with one another. He had done that sometimes too, learning what touches to his body and what touches to other bodies brought pleasure, something he'd had no experience of before the Gallows. He'd been still a child in the alienage, and then too young and an outsider among the Dalish. It was only once he'd been brought to the Gallows that he'd learned of the pleasure of touch, and the pain of it from the wrong hands.

Keran had good hands. It had felt good, the nights when Keran had given him a massage before bed, but those had ended when the snows came. He touched himself under the covers, lightly, remembering Keran's hands on his back, the goodness of it. He wondered what it would be liked to be touched by Keran, as another tranquil would have touched him, gentle touches in the night.

The fire popped, and settled, logs shifting as one lower in the stack broke apart. He turned his head to look, and saw that some coals had rolled out, glowing dimly red on the hearthstone. They were safe there, there was nothing they could burn, but he didn't like to see there there, glowing so close to the dry wood floor. It was messy, and out of place, and fire was dangerous if not contained. He rose, quietly, and silently lifted the brush from the rack of tools, whisking the coals back into the fireplace, into the pile of soft grey ash, where they were safe. He hung the brush back up, neatly, and turned to return to his bed, taking the few strides back toward it.

The window caught his attention, as he was about to turn and sit down on his bed. The heat of the fire had melted the frost earlier, and most of the glass was still clear, the night outside and fire inside turning it into a dark distorting mirror, his fire-edged reflection an abstract moving shape against the darkness. But as the fire burned down it had cooled in the room, and the frost was growing again, from the edges in, curving feathery curls of crystals, glittering white against the darkness. It was beautiful, and he stopped, and stood still, watching, bed and sleep forgotten, too absorbed in watching the intricate patterns forming to even notice the growing cold.


	10. An Unsettling Morning

Keran woke suddenly, and lay still, feeling confused and wondering what had disturbed him. It was only when he heard teeth chattering from somewhere nearby that he realized Feynriel was not snoring in his bed, as he should have been, but was standing in the middle of the floor, a vague lighter shape in the darkness, shivering with cold.

"Feynriel?" he said, concerned. He glanced at the window, wondering what the other man was staring at, but seeing nothing but the opaque white of frost-covered glass. "What is it? Why are you up?" he asked, a little sharply.

Feynriel made a brief, jerky movement. "F-fire," he stuttered out, through chattering teeth. "There were c-coals. And then I s-saw the frost."

Keran frowned, unable to make sense of the tranquil's words. He opened his mouth to order the tranquil back to his bed, then looked at the pushed-back sheets and realized the other bed would be no warmer than the room was, and with the fire down to coals that was blasted cold. "Come here," he ordered instead, lifting up his own bedding and patting the mattress beside him. "Lie down. How long have you been standing there?"

"I d-don't know," Feynriel said, as he crawled into bed with Keran.

He was cold; icy cold. Keran cursed and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close under the warm blankets and rubbing at his arms and back to get some heat back into him. The tranquil started shivering even more strongly, violent tremors that shook his whole body; dangerously chilled, Keran judged, and hope he wouldn't sicken from it. After long minutes of brisk rubbing his teeth finally stopped chattering, and the shivering gradually slowed and then stopped. Feynriel finally gave a little sigh, snuggling closer to Keran, then went limp, asleep in his arms.

The templar snorted, and made note to ask Feynriel in the morning what had led to him standing around in the middle of the night like that. The fool tranquil was just lucky he'd woken up and noticed!

* * *

><p>It took him a moment to remember why there was someone else in his bed, when he woke the next morning. They'd shifted position sometime during the night, Feynriel having turned over so that his back was to Keran, the two of them spooned tightly together. Keran blushed as he realized that his arm had somehow ended up under Feynriel's nightshirt, hand pressed against the other man's bare stomach.<p>

Feynriel's skin was warm to the touch, warm and smooth, his stomach muscles flexing gently under Keran's hand as he breathed softly in and out. "Feynriel?" Keran said, quietly, unsure if the tranquil was awake yet, or still asleep. Feynriel made a sleepy murmuring sound, and shifted slightly, his own arm coming to rest alongside Keran's, hand over top of the templar's, his buttocks pressing firmly back against Keran. Keran flushed in deeper embarrassment as he felt his penis twitch at the contact. "Feynriel," he said, and moved his hand, giving the tranquil a slight shake to try and wake him.

Feynriel made another half-asleep sound, then moved a little, stretching in place like a cat, his legs stretching out under the sheets, upper back and shoulders curving and pressing back against Keran as his pelvis moved away from him, chin tucking down as he took in a deep breath of air before abruptly relaxing again, returning to his previous spooned position. His hand shifted on Keran's, pushing it further down his stomach. Keran's embarrassment deepened as he felt his hand come to rest against soft curls. He started to withdraw his hand, but Feynriel's hand closed around his wrist and pulled it up, out from under the nightshirt. Up to Feynriel's mouth, where the tranquil closed his lips around one finger and sucked lightly, tongue licking at Keran's skin.

Keran had never had his fingers sucked on before. The sensation of it was like a shock, a tingle that made his toes curl and his cock harden with astonishing speed. The heat, the moistness, and touch of teeth and drag of tongue... he breathed in sharply, and froze, too surprised to pull away as Feynriel moved on to the next finger, slicking it with spit as he sucked on it as well. Keran lay still, breath deepening, shocked and titillated and in part unable to believe what was happening. He'd never heard of a tranquil doing anything like _this_...

Feynriel guided his hand back downwards. Lower than before; within the fabric of the loose leggings the tranquil was wearing, Keran's spit-slicked fingers coming to rest against an undeniable erection. Feynriel's hand moved over his, curling his fingers into a loose grip around that hard, warm flesh, then the man rolled his hips, slowly, his cock sliding through the circle of Keran's fingers, buttocks flexing again Keran's own rock-hard erection as he moved.

"_Maker_," Keran swore, softly, eyes closing as he bent his head, resting his forehead against the other man's back. He should stop this, stop this _at once_, some part of him dimly knew. This was _wrong_, it was taking advantage of a tranquil... and yet, it hadn't been _he_ that had started it, had it? It had been Feynriel. And the feel of the other man's flesh sliding back and forth through his hand, of his own erection being rubbed against as the tranquil's hips lazily rolled, thrusting against him, was intoxicating. He should stop this, and yet... he remained still, letting it happen. _Not_ stopping it, as he so easily could have.

Instead he lay still, biting on his lower lip, fighting to at least prevent himself from thrusting against the other man in turn. To not _encourage_ what was happening. Not that the attempt did him much good, not with the quiet needy sounds the other man was making so close to his own ear, each of them sending another surge of _want_ through him. Not with his own erection so firmly trapped between his stomach and Feynriel's arse, and the rub of soft cloth against aching flesh as the man moved against him.

He felt Feynriel's hand shift again, sliding off of Keran's hand, moving further down, knew by the motion of it that Feynriel was caressing himself as well, stroking his flesh where it dangled below the cupped curve of Keran's hand. Felt the rolling of Feynriel's hips stutter, then become more urgent, felt the flesh encased in his hand swell and twitch as the tranquil gave a low cry, a flood of sticky wetness coating his fingers. Cried out himself, his own hips abruptly thrusting hard forward as his own cock responded in turn, his spend pulsing out after just a few hard thrusts, staining his nightclothes. He lay there, short of breath and filled with a feeling of deep shame at his response, his hand still wrapped loosely around the end of Feynriel's flagging erection, as the aftershocks faded away.

The tranquil moved suddenly, tossing back the covers and sliding out from under Keran's hand and out of the bed, not even glancing back at Keran as he walked off to the bathing chamber. Keran swore softly and rolled over onto his back. He could almost have believed he'd imagined it all, were it not for the sticky moisture coating his hand, and the cooling mess in his leggings. He flushed again as Feynriel walked back into the room, carrying a pitcher and a wash cloth. He looked searchingly at Feynriel's face, but there was no expression there beyond his habitual calm as he knelt down beside the bed, lifted Keran's hand, and gently wiped it clean.

Keran caught his hand, stopped him, when the tranquil started to reach for his leggings. He took the cloth from him, and flushed again in self-conscious awareness as he reached within his leggings and cleaned himself up before passing it back. Feynriel must have cleaned himself up first, he guessed, watching the man rise and walk off again, pitcher in one hand and damp cloth in the other, as unhurried and unworried as ever.

Feynriel came back again a minute later, hands empty this time, and neatly made his bed, changed out of his nightclothes into warmer clothing for the day, and walked off silently, just as he did every morning. Just as if nothing at all had happened; nothing of special note. Keran curled up under the bedding again once he'd left, cursing mentally and feeling very, very confused. Only once the smells of breakfast cooking reached him did he finally rise from bed and slowly begin to change as well.

He wanted to ask... he _needed_ to know... what had caused that, this morning. Had he unknowingly done something that had made the tranquil think he _wanted_ that? Or had some other templar taught him to do that, _forced_ him to it... an unsavoury thought, and yet recent rumours spoke of just that. Made it all too sickeningly clear that what he had always thought of as nothing worse than particularly distasteful jokes about the tranquil and their willingness to comply was _license_ in the eyes of some templars. That tranquil and mages alike had at times been forced to such acts, by the very men who were supposed to be their sworn protectors.

The thought sickened him. The thought that he himself might have unknowingly encouraged something like that was even worse. He was very quiet as he walked down the hallway and through the dining hall to the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, studying Feynriel intently, looking for some sign in his face, his bearing, some guide to help him find his way out of this sudden morass.

Feynriel's face was as calm as ever as he bent over the spider pan, a spatula in hand with which he stirred at its contents. His hair was caught back in a loose knot, long wisps of it hanging down in his face. As Keran had noticed before, he made no move to push them back out of his eyes; it didn't bother him, as it would most people. The kettle was just beginning to steam. Keran cleared his throat, then walked forward. Feynriel didn't startle at all, just glanced once in Keran's direction before returning his gaze to the pan. The same reaction he always had – a look to see who it was, and go back to work again.

Keran got down the mugs and the canister of tea and the honey, and began to prepare a mug for each of them. "What woke you last night?" he asked as he measured tea leaves into the mugs.

Feynriel looked at him, but didn't respond, his face having that curious blankness of decision-making on it. "I did not wake," he finally said after a while, then turned back to the pan, stirred the contents again. "I was awake. I stayed awake."

Keran frowned a little as he parsed that out. "Why were you standing, out of bed?" he asked, trying a different tack.

"The fire settled. There were coals on the floor. Coals should be in the fireplace, so I got up and swept them back."

Ah. Now _that_ made sense; he'd noticed before how very careful the man was with fire. "Why didn't you go back to bed, afterwards?" he asked, pouring hot water into the mugs.

"I saw the frost on the window," Feynriel said, and straightened up, making a vague gesture with one hand, a curve in the air, fingers spreading out. "It made patterns. I watched them, until you spoke to me." He was silent for a moment, then spoke again. "It was beautiful."

_That_ surprised Keran. He wouldn't have thought that the tranquil could still appreciate beauty. Not when it couldn't bring them a feeling of joy or awe, as it might a normal human. He looked at him curiously. "Why was it beautiful? What made it beautiful?" he asked, trying to understand.

"The pattern of it. The logic of its growth," Feynriel answered, perfectly calm, then gestured at the pan with his spatula. "Breakfast is ready."

He waited until they were seated at the table with their tea and food – bacon and hashed potatoes – before continuing the conversation. Not that it was very conversational, but at least Feynriel was answering his questions, and rather to his relief didn't seem to be in any distress. He ate a few mouthfuls of breakfast before moving on to the more difficult subject. "This morning, when you woke up... I don't understand why you... why we..." he floundered to a stop, feeling himself flushing again as Feynriel looked up from his plate, still expressionless.

"We had slept together in one bed. When I woke up I forgot you weren't tranquil," he said, calmly, and sipped his tea, as if his words were a perfectly sensible explanation.

Keran frowned over that. "Do you mean... that's something you would normally do, if you, errr... shared a bed. With another tranquil?" he finally asked cautiously.

"Yes. It is a goodness, sharing pleasure," he said, and ate another bite of his breakfast, unconcerned. "Like eating when you are hungry. Or warmth from fire or sunlight when you are cold. A goodness."

Keran felt a surge of relief at that. So maybe after all it had been nothing he'd done, or not done, but just a mistake brought about by the unusual circumstance of their having shared the bed. Something unlikely to ever happen again, he told himself rather fervently.

Though it was still deeply unsettling, even if it hadn't been his fault. He'd always thought of the expressionless, emotionless tranquil as _other_, as effectively neuter – to learn that they were in fact sexually active among themselves was... odd. When he studied Feynriel's face while he slowly ate some more breakfast, he could no longer see him as a sexless, vaguely masculine but largely androgynous man-shaped being as he had before. He could no longer see him as _other_.

That was almost more unsettling then the morning's events, this sudden shift in perception. It bothered him, and he couldn't pin down why. He would think about it later, he decided, when he wasn't feeling so unsettled by what had happened. For now, there was work to do. His exercising to do. Wood to chop and stack and carry in. Lunch to make. All the parts of their usual daily routine.

He didn't ask any further questions, just finished his breakfast and left Feynriel to clean up and make the bread dough while he went and exercised, trying to forget the events of that morning as he stretched and bent, lunged and side-stepped, trying to let his mind go blank while he exercised. As blank as a tranquil's mind, perhaps, except he suddenly had doubts about just how _blank_ that might be.

He finished his exercises feeling even more unsettled than when he'd started them.


	11. A Shift In Perception

He had thought this unsettling new awareness of Feynriel would pass, but as the days went by, it grew stronger if anything. No longer was he able to see him without wondering what he was thinking; without wondering what it was like, to be tranquil, to be without normal emotion. To have been someone powerful, a mage, and now to be so powerless. He studied Feynriel's face, endlessly, any time they were together, looking for some sign of what was going on inside his head.

Feynriel could not have feelings of _like_ or _dislike_ about something any more... but might he still have preferences? Favourite foods, perhaps, based on what tasted best, what had the most enjoyable texture or flavour, smell or colour? The tranquil certainly felt pain and pleasure – and he had spoken of things that had _goodness_ to them, seeming connected to pleasant physical sensation, which implied the reciprocal, that there were things that were _bad_.

He began giving Feynriel more choices in the occasional chores assigned to him, and asked his opinion, from time to time, about what Keran should make for supper, or whether raspberry or strawberry jam was tastier on their morning toast, whether they should bathe that night or wait until the next day. He quickly noticed that, yes, Feynriel _did_ have preferences; he liked ham more than dried beef, and liked dishes that were well-seasoned, but was not as interested in ones that were spicy-hot. He wasn't fond of turnips or parsnips, though he ate them without complaint. He preferred honey over any jam, and the strong-flavoured buckwheat honey best of all. He liked being clean – he bathed as often as Keran was willing to allow the time and wood to fill and fire the boiler.

When Keran cautiously offered him a massage after their bath one night – more than a touch worried about his own motivations in doing so – the tranquil accepted quickly, without the pause for thought he sometimes went through before answering questions. Keran supposed that was a sign that Feynriel liked massages, and when he worked up the nerve to ask, Feynriel simply nodded, and said "Being massaged is a goodness, even when I am not sore." So Keran decided it must fall into the category of things that the tranquil derived some level of physical pleasure from, which made sense – Keran certainly liked massages himself. It did make him hesitate over whether or not to offer them again, and yet... he'd found it soothing too, back when he was giving them to the tranquil every night, when they were spending their days so frantically gathering wood. In the end he let it become a part of their regular routine again, thinking that something they both derived relaxation and enjoyment from couldn't be entirely wrong.

On definite lack he noticed; Feynriel didn't seem to notice anything to do with temperature, unless he grew cold enough to start shivering, or warm enough to begin sweating. If told to go do something outside, he wouldn't necessarily think to dress warmly first. That puzzled Keran for a while – surely being cold wasn't enjoyable? After trying to get a sensible explanation out of Feynriel, he finally tried doing it himself – and it actually was rather nice for the first few minutes, the cold outside air pleasantly cooling on fire-warmed skin. After that he was doubly careful to always make sure to tell Feynriel to dress warmly before going outside, and kept a close eye on him while they were out. He wouldn't want the tranquil getting frostbite or anything like that.

As far as he could tell, things that would bother a normal human due to them being mildy uncomfortable or irritating in some way just... didn't register, with tranquil. Or perhaps not so much that they didn't register, as that they registered it _differently_ – like how having his hair in his face didn't bother Feynriel, when it would have driven Keran mad, as he recalled all-too-well from the time in his youth when he'd briefly experimented with longer hair. Pain might be something Feynriel noticed and avoided, and he certainly flinched away from a too-hot pot handle exactly the way anyone else would have, but minor irritants... just didn't irritate. Perhaps that was it – that the mental feeling of irritation wasn't there, even though the minor physical sensation that would have triggered it still was.

He found himself thinking about the tranquil – in general, not just about Feynriel – more than he ever had in his life before. And Feynriel himself... well, the man was never far from his thoughts. Not any more. He felt _aware_ of him all the time, when before he had faded into the background so easily.

And more than once, Keran found himself remembering that morning they'd woken up together, the feel of his hand on Feynriel, the sounds the tranquil had made as he took pleasure from Keran's touch. Of Feynriel's easy assurance that this was something the tranquil regularly indulged in among themselves, giving and receiving pleasure from each other. Which implied a far greater degree of free will among the tranquil than Keran had ever known they were capable of; would ever have truly believed, without the evidence of his own experiences. And, too, it disturbed him to face the realization that the tranquil were not just beings, but _sexual_ beings. He had assumed that any physical relationship a tranquil might have would be something forced upon them, and yet... if they were capable of making the choice to enjoy sexual activities among themselves, didn't that imply they were equally capable of making the choice to have a physical relationship with a non-tranquil partner?

He tried not to consider that point too closely; it made him feel deeply uncomfortable. He also tried not to dwell on just _why_ it made him feel uncomfortable, with only limited success. But, he knew, even if he didn't want to admit it, was that since he'd stopped seeing Feynriel as just "the tranquil" and started seeing him another being, a man... that he couldn't help thinking of him as an _attractive_ man. Because he _was_ attractive, with just the sort of slender good looks that Keran would have gone for if he'd popped in at the Blooming Rose one evening and wanted to take a rare trip on the other side of the bedsheets than his usual.

Waking up one morning to the quiet sounds of Feynriel pleasuring himself didn't help his peace of mind any. It just gave his imagination further fuel. And made him even more conscious of Feynriel's presence, any time the two of them were together, which was a good part of each day, snowed in as they were.


	12. Choices

Keran leaned back in his desk chair, and sighed, then scrubbed irritably at his hair. About time to trim it again; it was starting to flop over into his eyes. He smiled crookedly, reminded of Feynriel by the thought. Everything lately seemed to make him think of the other man. Which was in some degree understandable, he supposed, the two of them having been largely snowed in together for close to two months now, only leaving the post long enough on clear days to chop up more of the logs stacked up in the yard, and haul in more wood for the fires.

He frowned at his desk. Nothing for him to do, not even make-work. He'd completely reorganized the office twice since arriving, cross-checked every scrap of paper against the relevant ledgers and journals, filed everything away neatly. There wasn't a minor repair left to do in the entire post, either. Supper was already cooking, the kitchen was clean, the boiler refilled since their last bath. He'd double-checked Feynriel's inventory of the contents of the storage rooms over the course of the last week, and found not a single mistake on it.

He sighed, and scrubbed at his hair again, then abruptly rose to his feet, and walked out of the office and down the hallway to the workroom. The sign wasn't out; whatever Feynriel was working on today, it wasn't anything dangerous. He opened the door quietly, and slipped into the room.

Feynriel was seated at the small desk pushed into the space directly under the window, where there was the best light. There was a large sheet of parchment pinned to it in front of him. An illumination – an almost complete one. He was gilding details today, painting areas with sizing and then gently transferring sheets of thin-beaten gold to the tacky areas using a wide soft brush. His movements were careful and precise, his concentration on the task absolute.

Keran leaned back against the door, and just watched, silently. He wasn't sure the tranquil was even aware he was there, until Feynriel put aside the book of tissue-thin leafing, set down his brush, and turned his head slightly. "Do you need something?" he asked, voice calm and even, as it always ways.

"No. I just ran out of work to do in the office, and thought I might as well come here; no sense heating two rooms," he said. And knew it was almost a lie. The _reasoning_ was truthful enough, but... it hadn't actually been thoughts of saving on wood that had brought him here, though it made as good a reason as any to justify staying. "May I stay and watch, or would it distract you?"

"I do not get distracted," Feynriel said, and turned back to his work, picking up a different brush, a round-ended one, and began to pounce it against the gold-leafed areas, the loose bits of leafing breaking free, leaving behind just the areas that overlay the sizing. He worked with surprising speed, and when he was done carefully unpinned the sheet of parchment, holding his breath as he lifted it upright and tapped it gently, the loose particles of gold dropping onto the desk. He set the parchment aside, then used a small brush to gently whisk together the particles, and sweep them into an envelope folded out of a waste sheet of spoiled parchment, carefully setting it aside. It would, Keran assumed, eventually be melted down with other bits of gold, and made into something else, no particle of the precious metal wasted.

Feynriel pinned the parchment sheet down again, then rose to his feet, clearing finished working on it for the day. He began putting away the tools and supplies he'd been using. Keran walked over and looked at the sheet; a quote from Transfigurations – "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light."

The illumination around it was, rather predictably, a grouping of red candles in darkness, a large moth hovering over them. The flames of the candles and some of the parts of the moth's wings were picked out in gilt; the gold on the moth wings formed the vague outline of a woman's face when the light caught them, the eye-like markings on its wings her eyes. He couldn't recall seeing this design before – nor this quote used in an illumination – and supposed it must have been specially commissioned by some particularly pious believer. It was beautiful work, regardless.

Having finished putting everything away and fed the fire, Feynriel took a thick ledger down from one shelf, and flipped it open, then picked up a quill pen and a bottle of ink, and made a neat notation on one page. He cleaned the pen, put it and the ink away again, carefully blotted the page, looked up something on a different page, and then returned the book to its shelf. Keran guessed he was looking up what other items needed to be made, as he then set about taking supplies out of various small drawers in a large cabinet against one wall; a handful of carving tools, a small block of fine white beeswax. He set them down on the workbench, and pulled a high stool over before it, then settled down. Keran picked up a second stool from before one of the other work tables and carried it over, settling down on it where he could watch Feynriel work. The tranquil didn't even glance his way, but simply set out the tools in some array that made sense to him, then lit a small oil-filled burner and set a small ceramic cup in a metal stand over top of it. He shaved some of the wax from the block into the cup, then rose and walked back over to the cabinet, returning with a small two-part mold made of metal.

While Keran watched, he use the mold and melted wax to cast a plain circular band of wax, of about the size for either a man's ring, or a woman's thumb-ring, then carved tiny shapes out of wax, affixing them to the band, building up a setting on one side. Some details he carved directly into the surface of the band, whittling away at the wax, piercing it right through in some areas. Finally he attached the band of the ring to a cone-shaped wedge of wax, stood it in a small cylindrical tin, mixed together a slurry of fine white powder and water – plaster of some kind, Keran thought – and poured it carefully into the container, tapping the side repeatedly as he did so to prevent air bubbles. He set the container carefully aside on a shelf, and then cleaned up after himself again, putting everything away and taking the ledger down again to make another notation in it.

It was late by then, the light outside already faded to blue twilight. "We might as well go have supper," Keran said.

"Yes," was Feynriel's only answer.

Keran rose, and walked out to the hallway, then glanced back. He saw Feynriel returning the stool to where he'd taken it from, and felt slightly embarrassed to have not done that himself. Then the tranquil circled the room, dousing the few lights, before walking over to the door. He paused there a moment, looking back into the room – doubtless making sure everything was clean and put away properly – before closing the door and setting off to the kitchen. Keran followed him, thinking about how many things he'd seen the tranquil do – and do well. Everything from driving and caring for a waggon team to fine handiwork.

When they reached the kitchen, he served their supper – beans and smoked pork cooked together for most of the day with red wine and dried sour cherries – and late a few bites of it before asking a question. "Did you learn how to do illumination before or after you became tranquil?"

"After," Feynriel answered, calmly.

"And making jewellery?"

"After."

"Working with lyrium?"

"After. I knew very little about making things before I was made tranquil."

Keran frowned, puzzled. "But you haven't been tranquil for very long, have you? Only, what, a year or two?"

"Yes. But I only need to be shown how to do something once."

Keran's frown deepened. "But some of what you do is so complicated..."

"The end result looks complicated," Feynriel corrected him. "The individual steps are simple. There are rules to follow, for how to lay things out, for what colours or proportions or materials to use. And many skills build on one another. Carving channels in a blade to accept lyrium is the same sort of work as carving shapes out of wax, only the materials are harder or easier to work with. The tools are much the same. The skills to use them are much the same. And skills are easy to learn, when you can concentrate on a task without distraction."

Keran frowned again. "Is my watching you a distraction?"

"I do not get distracted," Feynriel repeated what he'd said earlier. He chewed a mouthful of beans, then explained in more detail. "When I am working on a task, I am thinking only of the task. Not of other things. There is no distraction. Not like there was before I was tranquil."

"You can remember what things were like from before you were tranquil?" Keran asked, a little surprised, and very fascinated.

"Of course," Feynriel said, as calm and unhurried as ever. He ate more of his meal before continuing. "I am the same person. I have the same memories."

"But... what about emotions... can you remember those too?"

Feynriel stopped eating for a moment, facing going blank in thought. He set down his fork, folded his hands neatly in his lap. "Yes," he finally said. "I can remember what it was to feel. But I cannot feel what it was to feel. It is like... pain. When you remember pain, you remember that it hurt, but you do not feel the hurt again. There is only the memory of it. I can remember being frightened, but I do not feel the fear again. This body..." he paused, face blanking again. "I do not feel emotion. When you are frightened, your heart races, your blood pounds, your breath comes short, you tremble. I can remember how that felt but I cannot feel it any more."

"What frightened you?" Keran asked, softly.

"Many things. The way people looked at me. Being half-human in the alienage. The strangeness of my dreams. My own powers as a mage – what that meant for my life. Life among the Dalish, who did not like me nor want me there, though the Keeper was as kind as she could be. Templars," he said, and looked up at Keran, meeting his eyes for a moment. Then he unfolded his hands, picked up his fork, and resumed eating. Neatly. Calmly.

Keran fell silent again, eating more of his own meal, thinking about that. The more he talked with Feynriel, the more he questioned him, the less _simple_ he felt that the tranquil were. Their name was misleading, he found himself thinking. Their faces might be expressionless, their manners calm, their ready obedience to orders seemingly assured, but Feynriel's ability to come up with occasional sharp comments showed that there was more going on inside his head than the term "tranquil" might lead one to think. He had thoughts, preferences, he could make choices, he still felt pleasure or pain, he _remembered_ what it was to be a whole man. He _was_ a man, like any man, except that he was no longer able to feel emotions.

He was still considering that as he lay awake in bed, after they had retired for the night. And heard, as he had heard on several occasions, faint sounds from the other bed. He flushed, and chewed on his lip, and thought for a long moment about free will, and _choices_. And, finally, spoke.

"Feynriel..."

The sounds stopped.

"If you want to share pleasure with someone... I'm not adverse to the idea. I'm not saying you _have_ to, I'm just saying that if you would..." he stumbled to a stop. How to even _end_ that sentence, when he couldn't properly use words like _desire_ or _like_ in relation to what he was trying to say. "I'm saying I leave the choice up to you," he finished, finally, after an uncomfortably long pause.

There was a long silence. And then Feynriel pushed back his bedding and rose to his feet, long blond hair falling loose about his shoulders.. The light from the fire was enough to see that he was partially erect, tenting the front of his nightshirt, even to make out the faint damp spot darkening the fabric where it draped over the head of his penis.

"It is better with another," Feynriel said, calmly, as he stepped over to stand beside Keran's bed.

Keran swallowed, and lifted up the sheets, so the other man could join him. "You'll have to tell me what you want me to do," he said, quietly, as Feynriel climbed into bed with him. "I want all the choices to be yours."

Feynriel nodded, his hands already reaching for the hem of Keran's nightshirt, sliding up under it. His fingers hooked in the waistband of the loose leggings the templar had on under it, and he tugged downwards. "Off," he said.

There was considerably shifting around under the sheets as they both removed their leggings, then Feynriel was wiggling downwards under the sheets, as his hands pushed Keran's nightshirt up out of the way. Before Keran had even realized what the tranquil intended to do, he felt Feynriel's mouth closing around him under the sheets, hot and moist. He cried out as much in surprise as in pleasure at the feeling of it. He'd had that done to him a time or two before, but only because he'd paid extra for it at the Rose, and he'd never had it done by another man.

His hands slid down under the sheets, cupping around Feynriel's head. The man dipped his head further then withdrew it slowly, tongue licking firmly along his length, cheeks hollowing rhythmically as he sucked repeatedly. Keran's eyes closed and head tilted back as he cried out hoarsely, unable to think of anything but how _good_ it felt as the tranquil worked his way up and down Keran's shaft, licking and nibbling and sucking on his achingly hard flesh. Then Feynriel's hands were gently pushing his own away again, and Feynriel sat up, the blankets falling down to drape around his shoulders. His face was faintly flushed with colour, his lips red and swollen, and glistening wetly with his own saliva. He rose to his knees and moved forward, legs moving to bracket Keran's waist.

This time, at least, Keran figured out what the tranquil intended to do before he did it. Keran put his hands on the other man's hips, steadying him, as Feynriel bunched up his nightshirt out of the way in one hand, while with the other he reached down and back, grasping Keran's erection and positioning it before he began to slowly lower himself down upon it. He must have either been stretching himself while slicking Keran with his saliva, or beforehand when he was in his own bed; Keran felt only slight resistance before his tip pressed past the tight circle of muscle and slid slowly inside of the other man.

Feynriel was a much quieter partner than a normal man would have been, or perhaps it was just that the only men Keran had been with before were being paid for it, and making noises of pleasure was part of what you paid for, regardless of the quality of your actual performance. He found himself watching Feynriel's face intently as the tranquil quietly rocked back and forth., lowering himself a little further with each movement. His expression was as calm as ever, at least at first, and then as his hips rocked back and forth and he sank a bit further down again, he let out a very small gasp, his cheeks flushing even darker. Each time he rocked back after that drew another small gasp, and something about how tiny the sound was, how involuntary a response it seemed, made it feel like all the more intense a reaction to Keran than even the deepest, throaty moan of a whore had ever been. And he suddenly found himself wishing that his experience with partners had not been limited to the bought-and-paid for variety, that he might have some basis for comparison over whether this intensity was normal, or was peculiar to Feynriel himself.

Feynriel sank the last little distance down, Keran seated fully within him now. He paused for a moment, just sitting there, eyes unfocused, muscles clenching a little and then loosening again.

"Feynriel?" Keran asked after a moment, lifting his hand to touch the tranquil's cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. It feels good," Feynriel said, then shifted his position slightly, the clench of muscles loosening further.

"Should I move?"

Another pause. Another shift of position, which drew another tiny sound from the man. Then, "Yes."

Keran let his hand drop back down to Feynriel's thigh before he gave a tentative thrust with his hips. He was not in a good position for it, he realized right away; with his legs stretched out straight as they currently were he had little leverage, and with as little lubrication as they had, he was going to need at least a little extra force to move properly. Though the movement he _had_ made was still enough to draw a slightly louder sound from the man in his lap. He left his hips drop back down, then bent his legs slightly, so he could brace his feet flat against the mattress. His next thrust was harder, higher, and Feynriel's reaction to it was that much more noticeable, his entire body arching backwards slightly, a louder moan driven from him. He thrust again, starting a slow steady rhythm, still watching Feynriel closely to be sure that the tranquil was actually enjoying what they were doing. Feynriel began to move as well, in counterpoint to his movements, lifting himself up as Keran lowered, then dropping as he rose. And then Keran saw real expression on a tranquil's face for the first time ever, as Feynriel's eyes closed and mouth dropped open as he cried out in obvious pleasure at the deeper thrust.

It was a peculiarly riveting sight. He could only stare, hands tightening on Feynriel's thighs as he thrust into him, over and over again, driving further cries from him each time they moved. His own mouth hung open as he gasped for breath, grunting and moaning as he slid in and out. He wasn't going to last long; not with as little release as he'd had since leaving Kirkwall. Not with as incredible as it felt, Feynriel sliding tight and warm around him, or as excited as the tranquil's little cries of pleasure were making him feel in turn.

Feynriel's hand closed around one of his, lifting it from the tranquil's thigh and bringing it to touch his erection instead. Keran quickly divined what he wanted, closed his hand loosely around the firm length of flesh, and began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Feynriel cried out, louder than before, and began to move his own hips more energetically, thrusting into the circle of Keran's hand. The added motion to his hips was more than Keran could take; within a few more strokes he cried out loudly, still thrusting hard as he orgasmed. His seed spurted out, hot and wet, and lubricated their movements so that he was able to keep up his thrusting a little longer, until Feynriel cried out as well, muscles clenching tightly as his own spend spurted out over Keran's fingers and stomach.

Feynriel slumped forward afterwards, face returning to its usual expressionless calm, though still flushed with the effort of their passion, hair sticking to sweaty skin, supporting his weight on hands braced to either side of Keran. Keran carefully lifted his clean hand to touch the other man's face, push some of the hair back from his face so he could see it more clearly in the flickering firelight. It was almost eery to see that placid face again after having seen it twisted in passion for few minutes before.

Someone else – someone normal – might have smiled. Or kissed his hand, or leaned down to kiss him on the lips. Said something, maybe. Feynriel just stayed still, catching his breath, then leaned over, caught up his discarded leggings, and efficiently set to work to clean Keran's hand and belly. Keran stayed still, letting the tranquil do what he wished, watching him, studying him. Only once Feynriel had risen off of him and cleaned them both up, and started to move away, did he finally move, reaching out to touch Feynriel's arm. "Stay," he asked, quietly. "Please."

Feynriel nodded, once, dropped the stained leggings onto the floor beside the bed, and lay down next to Keran. Not cuddling, just there in the same bed, but... it felt right, to have him there. To not just share pleasure with him and let him leave, but to share the bed with him as well, afterwards. He heard Feynriel's breath even out into the slow inhalations and exhalations of sleep within a few minutes, smiled sleepily a while later as he heard the tranquil's soft little snores begin before he faded off into sleep himself.


	13. Minor Motifs

Keran leaned on the worktable, watching silently as Feynriel inked in the final outlines of the shapes in the illumination. He worked far faster than Keran ever could have done a similar task, hands moving surely, not wavering in the slightest as he repeatedly dipped the fine glass-nibbed pen into the dark ink and drew its tip in smooth lines around each area of colours. Finally he sat back, cleaned the pen and dried the pen, and put everything away.

"It's beautiful," Keran said, looking at the finished page, done except for the final drying and eventual framing. He gestured at the hovering moth. "I've never seen this particular pattern before. Did you design it yourself?"

"No," Feynriel said, as he rose and carried off the pen and ink to put away in their proper place. "I do not do design. I am a copyist; I can only work with motifs that someone else has designed."

Keran frowned slightly. "Does that mean you can make something like this, as long as it's all made of things you've worked on before?"

"Yes. I could not design something like that moth myself, but having painted it once, I can always draw it again for something else."

"What if they didn't want it with the candles, like here, but in some other pattern?"

"As long as they can describe what pattern they want, and it uses elements I have worked with before, I can likely lay it out. There are rules for that – proportions and placements that work best. Unless it involved a motif of Andraste – I would have to use one of the standard designs for that, since I have never been taught all the rules of symbolism for her."

"The rules of symbolism? I'm not sure what you mean," Keran said.

"In a layout with Andraste, there are rules about how she may be drawn, in what circumstances, what direction she must face, what expression she can have. Even what colours may be used, in some cases. Almost all of it related to what quote the illumination accompanies. The priests decided all of that long ago, and the designers make sure the rules are followed. It would be permissible for a copyist to work with the lessor motifs to make a new design – the flaming sword, the red candles, the golden city, the Maker's breath, and so on. But not Andraste, or any of the other major motifs."

"Oh," Keran said, and thought about it. "I... suppose that makes sense. So if I wanted an illumination of something that had the flaming sword, and this moth, you could draw that?"

"Yes. Though I cannot think what passage that might be used to illuminate."

Keran smiled. "Just a random question, I have nothing specific in mind."

He straightened up, and looked around the room. He'd been in here most of the day, watching Feynriel work, and questioning him at intervals. Had Feynriel not been a tranquil, doubtless he'd have been driving him mad. But the tranquil seemed immune to aggravation; Feynriel was endless patient with both his presence and his questions.

"I wish I could do work like this," he said a touch enviously, glancing down at the page again. And was a bit surprised at the truthfulness of the words, though it was more that Feynriel had work he _could_ do than the specific skills that he wished for; if anything was driving Keran himself mad, it was the boredom that was setting in as winter slowly dragged by, time hanging heavy on his hands.

"You could learn," Feynriel said.

Keran looked at him in some surprise. "Really?"

"It is one of the easier skills. You already know how to write; working with brush and colours is not much different." As he spoke, Feynriel walked over and unpinned the parchment from the table, lifting it up and carefully putting it aside on the workbench. He opened a drawer, and took out a scrap piece of parchment, worn thin from repeated scrapings, the surface stained piebald from previous uses. He opened a drawer and took out a thin piece of some hard substance, and quickly ran the tip over the paper, leaving behind a faint drawing; a row of candles. He pinned the parchment to the surface, then looked at Keran and gestured at the chair. "Sit," he said, and walked away, returning quickly with a bottle of red ink and a brush.

He set them down, uncorked the bottle, and dipped the brush, wiping most of the ink off on the lip of the bottle. "The trick is to use only a thing even coating. You don't want it to pool on the parchment, or to have to brush over it several times, or the colour will be uneven," he said, and with a quick, practised stroke filled in one of the candles with an even coating of red colour. He dipped and wiped the brush again, then handed it to Keran. "Practise that on the other candles," he said, and walked off.

Keran watched him leave, then belatedly remembered the brush in his hand, just in time to see a drop of the red drop down and spatter on the sheet. He winced, then set to trying to colour in one of the candles. It was a lot harder than it looked when Feynriel did it. Still, it wasn't like he had anything else he needed to be doing. He settled down more comfortably on the stool, re-dipped the brush, and tried again.

* * *

><p>They didn't sleep together every night. But every second or third day, Feynriel would join Keran in his bed, and they would share pleasure in some way. Sometimes that just meant touching with their hands for a while, enough to excite, though not always to completion. Sometimes it meant more – things done with their mouths, or the rub of flesh on flesh, or by penetration.<p>

Feynriel seemed to think saliva an adequate enough lubricant, though he willingly adopted a better one when Keran suggested they use oil or a greasy salve instead, like the one he used for massage. Keran supposed the tranquil just didn't think to use such things among themselves; they didn't seem as bothered by discomfort. At least Feynriel, who was his only real exposure to the them, didn't seem to be.

He enjoyed everything they tried together. But the one thing that excited him most, that never failed to fascinate him, was to see Feynriel's face reflecting the pleasure he was feeling; to see him have any expression other than his usual calm emptiness. It seemed like some kind of magic, that he could bring such an intense look to the normally expressionless face. And, too, it reassured him; as long as Feynriel was clearly enjoying what they were doing, was doing it only of his own choice, at his own volition, then he could reassure himself that it was okay for the two of them to be doing this. That while it might not be an action that others in the chantry would condone, that it was at least something _he_ felt sure was not abuse.


	14. Midwinter Visitors

It was drawing close to Firstday when they finally saw visitors again. It startled him, the sudden thunderous knocking on the door while he and Feynriel were eating their lunch, his slice of warm honey-topped bread dropping to the floor as he jumped in surprise at the unexpected sound. Feynriel, of course, didn't flinch at all, and merely set down his own piece of bread before stooping down to clean up the dropped food.

"I'll go get that," Keran said, unnecessarily, and hurried off to unbar the door and see who was there.

It proved to be a merchant and his men, not hauling goods in waggons or on mule-back, but instead in towering packs strapped to each man's back, balanced by a strap that crossed their hood-draped foreheads. They wore odd flat nets on their feet, which kept them up on top of the snow rather than sinking down into it.

"Ho there! I'd like to rent the attic room for a couple of days," the man said, smiling widely. "You'd be Keran, right? I'm Liam Kelling"

"Ah, yes... how did you..." he asked uncertainly, stepping back to let the men come in.

"Merchant Whiskrell told me your name," the merchant explained, while stripping off his gloves – two pair of them, Keran noticed, heavy fleece-lined leather mitts over knitted woollen gloves – and then smiled. "Said you seemed smart enough to rub two sticks together for warmth, and were likely to still be alive when I came through. Glad to see he was right. Anyway, I'll want the room for two nights so me and the boys can have a proper rest and warm-up, and I'll also want to trade for more supplies before I move on, though that can wait until tomorrow."

"Of course," Keran said, then frowned. "I'm surprised to see anyone out travelling in this kind of weather."

"Oh, this is nothing," the merchant said, as he peeled off more of his outerwear. "I'm from Ferelden originally; this is fine spring weather compared to some of the storms we used to get back there. Though you're right that few people stir far from home in weather like this, even back home. But that means extra profit for those of us who can do it," he added with a wink, then jerked his thumb towards the pack sitting on the floor beside him, which stood almost as tall and wide as he did. "People will pay a pretty penny for my goods in winter – three or four times what they'd have paid if they'd thought to buy enough of it in the fall. It's mainly luxury goods of course – tea, spices, and so on."

Keran nodded, then smiled. "I might want to buy some tea from you myself, depending on what you have. I'm not running low, but I could use a little more variety."

"See what I mean?" the merchant said, smiling widely. "But we can talk about that later," he said, making a dismissive gesture. "Right now me and the boys could use some warmth and rest. And some good hot tea – okay if we make use of the kitchen here?"

"Of course," Keran said. "Go ahead, the fire's burning anyway. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go and finish lunch..."

"Of course," the merchant agreed, with an easy smile, then turned away and started issuing orders to his men, most of them disappearing off upstairs to the attic room to start a fire and put their gear away, another heading off to the kitchen in Keran's wake to put the kettle on.

It felt odd to have others there in the post again, after so much time with just Feynriel and himself there. But Liam was a friendly sort, full of stories of his life on the road both down in Ferelden until the Blight Year, and in the Free Marches ever since. He also kept his people well in hand, restricting them to the attic room for most of their brief stay, explaining to Keran that while some had been part of his crew for years and had earned his trust, he always had a few new people – usually rather desperate people, since most Free Marchers looked askance at the idea of winter travel – who he couldn't feel entirely comfortable vouching for yet.

Keran enjoyed the talks he had with the man during his brief stay, and felt sorry to see him and his people leave again on the second day. It made him realize just how lonely and isolated the trading post was, once again all too aware that it was just himself and Feynriel there. At least the two of them got along reasonably well and didn't aggravate each other; some of the stories the merchant had told about cases of cabin fever he'd seen in his wintertime travels were chilling.

* * *

><p>Feynriel pinned a fresh parchment down on the table. Not a waste piece of parchment this time, but a spoiled sheet that had been mishandled at some point in time, the partially-coloured illumination on it smeared and ugly. It would, Feynriel said, be good practise for Keran to try and colour in what remained. He set down a bottle of ink – a deep blue colour today – and pointed out the areas to be coloured in with it. The robes of a man at one side of the paper, the boots of another, the cloak on a third, and a scattering of flowers in a forest-edged meadow on the other end of the sheet.<p>

Keran set to work. He found it soothing to do, and was getting quite good at filling the areas with an even coat of colour. And it was better than just sitting around with nothing at all to do. Or with nothing to do but watch Feynriel at work. Not that he didn't still spend time watching Feynriel at work; that was soothing as well, watching the steady, assured way his hands moved, crafting amazing things. Small wonder the work of the Formari was so highly valued; they might not be able to work magic any more, but the things they crafted had a power of their own.

"That's the wrong cloak," Feynriel said mildly, glancing down at the sheet as he walked by.

"Oops," Keran said, and smiled crookedly. "Guess I let my attention wander. Well, it's blue now. Guess it'll have to stay that way."

When he was finished with the blue – the flowers took a while, even as small as they were, as there were so many of them – Feynriel gave him a different colour, a golden yellow, and told him to colour in the hair and beard of two of the men, the robe of the second, and the pants of the third, as well as the fruit in the trees.

"Yellow fruit? Aren't these apples?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes. You paint over them again, using a very fine brush, in little lines of first green and then red. They do not look yellow any more by the time they are done. Like this," he said, and went over to a shelf, taking down a sheet from a neat stack of them there. It was, Keran saw, the same quotation and drawing, fully coloured in and gilded, ready for framing.

"That's lovely," he said, and stared at the fine colouring in the final work, pouring over it for several minutes. "How do you get this effect there," he asked the next time Feynriel walked by, and pointed at one of the cloaks. "The shading on the blue cloak. It doesn't look at all like the same blue I'm using."

"Using a very thin wash of a different colour. The shadows have been washed with red; the combination makes them seem almost purple in tone. The same red was used for the shading in the hair, to make a richer brown. And here, on the green cloak, the highlights have been touched with yellow and the shadows with blue. It gives the work more depth than if it was only shaded with black or white. You will learn this technique once you have finished colouring in the base colours."

Keran found himself thinking how little likely it was that he'd ever be able to produce something of a similar level of skill. But then it wasn't like he needed to; this was just something to fill his time, after all. Still, it would be something to aim for... maybe not to be able to do a full sheet in as many colours, but to at least be able to do some of the basic things. Have some familiarity with the techniques involved. He handed the sheet back to Feynriel to be put away again, and returned to his own work, chewing on his lip as he carefully flooded areas with the golden yellow ink.

* * *

><p>Keran woke some time before dawn as Feynriel stirred and rose from the bed, walking over to put a fresh log on the coals. The room was cold, and he could hear the sounds of a storm blowing past outside, wind-driven snow hissing against the window. The sound made him hope that the merchant and his men were somewhere with good shelter.<p>

It was nice to be curled up in a warm bed on a day like this, he thought, and smiled as he watched Feynriel crouching down before the fire, reduced in the darkness to a firelight-edged silhouette, naked apart from his hair cascading loose around his shoulders. He'd kept most of the extra breadth there that he'd put on over the fall from chopping wood. He was, Keran found himself thinking as he ran his eyes over him from head to toe, quite beautiful.

He wondered if Feynriel was even aware of how attractive he was. The tranquil seemed to have some sense of aesthetic appreciation still – witness how he could be mesmerized by the growth of frost on the window, or the beautiful things he made with the work of his own hands. While some of that beauty might come from the rules of proportion and placement he spoke of, Keran could not believe that _all_ of it came from such.

Feynriel shifted position, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Keran. The tattoo on his forehead stood out starkly in the firelight, and Keran stopped breathing for a moment, staring at it. He had seen it hundreds of times before, on other tranquil, on Feynriel during their months together here, and only just in that moment did it sink in for him what a dreadful _lessening_ it represented. Not just how it meant that Feynriel had been lessened from a powerful mage to just a mundane man, but worse – how in so many ways it marked him as _less_ than a man. Unable to feel. He couldn't really imagine that, even having _seen_ it, lived with it, for so many months now. To never feel fear again, or grief. Happiness, sorrow, joy, anger, hatred, lust, grief, guilt... all the things that made men _human_.

"Feynriel... come back to bed," he said, and was surprised to hear how tight and hoarse his own voice sounded. "Please."

The man rose and walked over. He stood by the bed a moment, looking down at Keran, face as calm as ever, then slid under the covers. "You're crying," he observed, reaching out to touch his hand to Keran's cheek. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't know," Keran said. And then realized he did. "Because you can't," he said, and put his arms around Feynriel, holding him tightly. And knew, then, that the reason he'd said was only part of it. That the biggest reason he was crying was because he had realized that he was falling in love with someone who could never, ever love him back.


	15. Spring Thaw

The worst of winter was over; the thaw had begun. They had long since used up all of the piled logs in the yard, and a goodly portion of the cut wood from the shed as well, but the worry of not having enough wood to get them through the winter was behind them.

With the thaw they started seeing more people again, mainly the first merchant trains; a few of them were on foot as Liam had been – mainly poor merchants travelling on their own, their entire stock on their back, tinkers and similar – and a few better-off merchants with mules or donkeys carrying their goods, the road still being too much of a morass for waggons to travel yet. There would be even more merchants going through once the pass to the north finally reopened, though that would not be for some weeks yet.

As good as it was to see the snows receding and the occasional new face to talk to for an evening and hear stories of the road from, it made Keran feel a little unhappy as well. It would only be a little while longer – somewhat over a month - until replacements arrived to man the post for the spring through fall season, and then he and Feynriel would be headed back to Kirkwall. And once there, he knew, their relationship would have to come to an end. They would have no more opportunities to share pleasure there. He was not sure if Feynriel would be bothered by it ending, and he couldn't quite bring himself to ask; not when he suspected what the answer would have to be. After all, how could a tranquil feel attachment to another person when they couldn't feel at all in the first place. There would likely be no regret; no missing of him. And perhaps it was better that way – a clean ending, at least for Feynriel, even if Keran himself was left with a tangled ball of loose ends due to his own decidedly one-sided feelings for the man.

They did not have sex on the days when others were about, but that was still only a rare interruption. Each day that they did still have a chance to share, that Feynriel came to his bed, Keran took full advantage of, doing his best to bring pleasure to the other man. And that was something he would not have imagined even a few short months ago, either – that he could feel such satisfaction at seeing someone else's pleasure, at knowing that _he_ was the cause of it.

Merchants, however, were not the only people taking to the roads now that spring had arrived.

* * *

><p>Keran had just finished bringing the account books up to date again, marking in the purchases and payments from the merchant who'd just departed that morning, when he heard the increasingly familiar sound of a loud knocking at the door. He muttered a curse, disappointed that it would likely be another night before he and Feynriel would have proper privacy again, then rose and hurried to answer.<p>

He smiled when he first opened the door, and saw a group of men in familiar armour – templars, his brothers-in-arms – a Knight-Lieutenant and three regular templars, judging by their insignia. Though maintaining the smile became harder when he saw the final man in the group, standing at the back between two of the templars. An apostate, by the look of him, hands bound behind him, with a badly bruised face – both eyes blackened, one of them swollen shut entirely, his lips swollen and split, a bruise purpling his cheek and jaw.

"Welcome," Keran said. "I take it you're looking to stay for the night?"

"That we are," the senior templar said with a smile. He had a noticeable accent – Orlesian, Keran thought, though the clasp of his cloak had the mark of the Nevarran templars on it, as did those his companions. His next words confirmed that. "I'm Knight-Commander Etienne, out of Cumberland. It'll be good to spend a night under roof again – my men and I have been on the road for two weeks, chasing down this apostate," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at their prisoner.

Keran nodded, keeping his expression and voice neutral. "I'm Ser Keran. The attic room is free, or you could take the tranquil dormitory, though there's only three beds in there."

Etienne raised an eyebrow. "No tranquil here this winter?"

"Just one. We were short on wood so he's been sharing my room," Keran said shortly.

"Could have left him in the dorm, they don't notice cold. But sure, if the room is free, we'll take it," Etienne said, then smiled. "Three cots should be enough, anyway, since we'll need to be keeping a guard on our prisoner. We know the way."

Keran nodded. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me; adding more water to the stew," he said.

Etienne laughed. "As long as you add more vegetables too! My men and I are half-starved," he said, then headed off in the direction of the bedrooms, he and his men clearly familiar with the layout of the place. They'd likely stayed in the posts numerous times, and the buildings were all made to much the same pattern. For that matter, operating out of Cumberland as they were they'd likely stayed in this very post before.

He put the kettle on for tea, and started getting out additional vegetables to chop up and add to the pot simmering in the hearth. Then he stopped, deciding he might as well have Feynriel stop work for the day and come help him in the kitchen. The thought of the tranquil alone elsewhere in the building with unfamiliar templars around making him feel oddly uneasy. Especially when it was templars that had obviously been were obviously less than gentle with their prisoner.

His unease changed to outright worry when he stepped into the hallway leading to the workroom and saw the door open, one of the templars standing in the hallway looking through the opened doorway. As he got closer he saw that Etienne was just inside the door, watching Feynriel at work, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

He ignored both of them, beyond a muttered "excuse me" as he pushed past the one at the door. "Feynriel," he called, voice sharper than he'd intended. "Put that away and come help me in the kitchen," he ordered, then turned and forced himself to smile – or at least show his teeth – at Etienne and his man. "Sorry, I'll have to ask you to leave the room so that he can lock up."

"Of course," Etienne said easily, smiling widely, and walked out of the room. The man's easy agreement would have set Keran's mind more at ease if he hadn't caught the look the two templars exchanged as they left, nor heard the tone of voice in which Etienne made some quiet comment to the other man as they disappeared down the hallway. Or found them in here in the first place, where they had no reason to be.

He kept Feynriel close the rest of the afternoon, not particularly caring whether or not it was obvious how little he trusted their visitors. He wished he had some excuse not to dine with them, but had no choice but to share the dining hall with three of them, the fourth remaining in their room with their captive. He forced himself to maintain a polite demeanour and pretend interest as they talked about their travels. Most of which revolved around the hunting down of apostates; Etienne and his men were clearly an experienced hunter team. He didn't like their stories; they had a cruel edge to them. And they were clearly editing out parts of them, though the smirks they exchanged made it easy to guess what sort of things they were leaving out. More templars like Ser Alrik and his ilk, he thought; ones who saw mages as prey, not as people to be protected.

Keran was relieved when the meal finally ended, and he and Feynriel could disappear back into the kitchen to clean up before retiring to their own bedroom. He was glad that the templars made no effort to spend the evening socializing with him; they had retreated to their own room directly after the meal. Their door was closed, the sounds of quiet conversation audible through it.

He and Feynriel changed into their nightclothes and lay down in their separate beds. Keran felt too tense to go to sleep, not that he could have with the murmur of talk from next door, the occasional soft laugh. He had begun to wonder how long the templars were going to stay awake talking when the sounds finally died away. He sighed in relief, curled up more comfortably in his bed, and started to drift off to sleep at last.

Only to start wide awake again at the sound of a muffled cry from next door. He lay frozen, thinking perhaps he had imagined the sound, as one sometimes did on the edge of sleep, then heard the clear slap of flesh against flesh, another outcry, and coarse laughter from at least two different men. His blood went cold, and he sat up in bed, not wanting to believe that he was hearing what he thought he was.

He looked over at Feynriel's bed, and saw that the tranquil was also awake, his eyes open, watching Keran. "Do you hear..." he whispered, before he could stop himself.

"Yes. They are probably abusing the mage," Feynriel said, voice matter-of-fact and quiet, just barely above a whisper.

Keran paled, and felt ill, especially when he remembered that Feynriel had once been in the hands on a hunter team. He could only hope that Hawke's presence had prevented such cruel treatment of him from occurring. He didn't dare ask.

Another cry, more laughter. Laughter with a dark edge to it. His hands shook as they tightened on the edge of his blanket. He swallowed, and then rose to his feet. Some men might be able to ignore what was occurring in the next room, tell themselves it was none of their business... but he couldn't. This was _his_ post, and what those men were doing was _wrong_.

"Keran," Feynriel said softly, as he stepped towards the door. "If you interfere, they may kill you."

He stopped, hand on the door handle. "Are you saying I shouldn't interfere?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at Feynriel.

"No. I am only saying that if you do, they might kill you," Feynriel answered, calmly.

"I don't think I'd be able to live with myself if I don't at least try to stop them," Keran said.

He paused a moment longer, considering putting on his armour, or at least taking his sword with him... but one man against four? Armour and weapon would do him little good if they decided to turn on him. Another cry, more a sob than anything else, decided him. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Right up until he opened the door to the other room, he was still hoping that he and Feynriel were wrong; that there was some more innocent explanation for the sounds they were hearing. But such was not the case, he saw in the brief glimpse he had of the room full of half-naked men before something slammed into the side of his head and things went dark.


	16. In Our Memory

He hurt, was his first thought on waking. He tried to move, and moaned as the pain grew considerably worse. He started to lift his head, and could only raise it a little off the floor before it dropped back down again. The impact was enough to almost make him black out again, and the accompanying nausea made him retch, which made him hurt even worse.

He lay there, trying to remember what had happened. He'd left the room, gone next door... seen what Etienne and his men were doing to that poor bastard of a mage. Then, darkness, and a vague memory of waking to blows, fists or feet slamming into him over and over again as he huddled on the floor, and the sound of cruel laughter interspersed with curses. He'd blacked out again mercifully quickly. He drew a slightly deeper breath, and feeling the way it pained his ribs, decided that shallow breathing was a much better idea. He tried to open his eyes, and couldn't, his lids either swollen shut or gummed together with something, he couldn't tell which.

He froze as he heard the scuff of footsteps somewhere nearby. Were they still here?

"Keran?" Feynriel's voice. He moaned, the only response he was currently capable of making. "Keran, I'm hurt." The footsteps came closer. He heard a door creak open. "Keran?"

A lengthy silence. Then, "You're hurt," in Feynriel's usual calm tones. It almost made him want to laugh, except, _Maker_, laughing right now would half-kill him, judging by the way he felt just lying there and breathing. He remembered Feynriel's words before he'd left the room – "they might kill you" – and found himself thinking that the tranquil had been right. They'd certainly made a damned decent try at it.

He managed to swallow, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth – blood, and vomit. "They still here?" he managed to whisper.

"They left this morning," Feynriel answered. "You are hurt. I will be back," he said, and then Keran heard his footsteps retreating.

He must have passed out again. His next clear memory was of waking to the feeling of a wet cloth being carefully passed over his skin, wiping him clean. The coolness of it on bruised flesh was soothing; though even as gentle as Feynriel's touch was, it still hurt. He almost passed out again when Feynriel touched fingers to his cheek and gently turned his head. He whimpered, but didn't otherwise protest as the tranquil cleaned his face, holding the damp cloth to his eyes to unstick them.

It was a relief at first to open his eyes and _see_ again, for the brief moment before he focused on Feynriel's face and saw the bruises. Then he did cry out, in shock and anger. "You're hurt!" he managed to rasp out.

"Yes. But not as badly as you are," Feynriel said. And calmly continued cleaning Keran.

He had, he gradually realized, been lying in a puddle of his own vomit and blood. Feynriel had cleaned up the worst of it from around him, and was now cleaning off what remained on him. He wondered, briefly, why the man hadn't simply moved him, and then considered how his head, back, and ribs felt, and was thankful that he hadn't tried. Just lying here was painful enough – actually moving was going to be infinitely worse.

He studied Feynriel's face, feeling a surge of anger as he took in the bruises there, and on his neck, disappearing down under his nightshirt. He felt a blinding rage filling him at the thought of Etienne and his men, of what they had done last night merely because they _could_. For the first time in his life, he understood how people could kill in anger; if Etienne appeared before him now, he'd be doing his best to kill the bastard, his own injuries be damned.

Feynriel finished cleaning him, got him turned over on his back and straightened out – the pain of which movement made him cry out and wish he'd black out again and miss the worst of it – then lifted his head enough to slide a pillow under it, and covered him with a blanket. Feynriel rose to his feet and left, carrying away the cleaning things. He was limping, Keran noticed.

It was some time until Feynriel returned; when he did, he was carrying a bowl and a mug carefully in his hands. He settled down on his knees beside Keran, and then raised up his head, helping him to sip from each dish. Tea, sweet with honey, and broth, tasting strongly of the dried beef it had been made from. He was only able to drink a little of each, then shook his head, knowing if he had more he'd be sick. Feynriel calmly drank off what remained, then lay down on the floor beside him, curling up against him. The tranquil fell asleep almost immediately; for Keran, sleep was a long time in coming, between the pain of his body and the pain of self-recrimination for having been unable to protect Feynriel better.

* * *

><p>It was evening when he awoke again, only the faintest light still coming in the window. Feynriel was awake, but hadn't moved away, instead was still lying on the floor beside him, eyes open. It hurt anew to look at the tranquil and see the bruises left by the other templars.<p>

"I'm sorry," Keran whispered, wishing he could move enough to reach out and touch Feynriel.

"Why?" Feynriel asked.

"If I hadn't interfered... they might not have hurt you..."

Feynriel didn't respond right away, and when he did, his voice was as calm and uninflected as ever. "He might have done this anyway. Ser Etienne does things like this."

"You _know_ him?" Keran asked, horrified.

Another long silence. "I know of him."

"You do? But how..." Keran broke off, then frowned. "You said, last night, that he might kill me. How did you know? How do you know of him?"

A very long silence, while Feynriel just lay there and looked steadily at him, before he finally seemed to reach some decision, and answered. "We watch. All the tranquil do. We keep track of the unsafe templars, the dangerous and cruel ones, the ones who like to hurt or sometimes kill. We remember what they have done to us, to the mages, to random innocents. Sometimes, as happened last night, to other templars. It is all here," he said, and raised his hand to touch his own temple. "In our memories. Every story we know of every such templar. Every crime we know they have committed. "

It was Keran's turn to remain silent and just look at Feynriel. The thought of what the tranquil described was somehow... profoundly unsettling. "Why?" he finally asked, voice little more than a whisper.

"In part to protect ourselves. So we know which templars to avoid the company of if we can, and how to avoid attracting their attention if we cannot, or at least lessen what damage is done if they do take an interest. There are rules, which you can follow with some of them, that will usually keep you safe. To meet their eyes, or to keep your eyes turned down in their presence. To answer questions promptly, or to remain silent. To make noise and fight, or to remain passive and let them do as they wish."

"_Maker's balls_," Keran swore softly, appalled at what it said about the activities of some templars that the tranquil felt a need to know such things, to keep track of them, to work out _rules_ of how to behave around some of them.

Feynriel had not finished speaking, however. His voice continued on, calm and quiet. "What such templars do is wrong. It is against the stated mandates of the order. It is forbidden by the rules you are supposed to follow. We remember what all such templars do, as much as we can. Not just to try and protect ourselves, but because someone should remember. Someone should know. And perhaps some day things will change, there will be an accounting, and templars like Ser Etienne or Ser Alrik will be punished for their actions, instead of their behaviour being ignored or rewarded."

"Rewarded?" Keran said, feeling ill. "I can't believe any just man would reward things like Etienne did last night...!"

"It is not the first time he has done such things, and I doubt it will be the last," Feynriel said, then sat up, looking down at Keran. "His first such attack on a mage happened when he was still a recruit, not even a templar. He was made a full templar a week later, a member of a hunting team within a year, a leader of his own team within two more. The Knight-Captain he serves under speaks well of him in reports – of his dedication, of his success rate in capturing apostates. The condition they arrive in – those that survive to reach the Circle – is never mentioned. But we tranquil know; the records are kept by one of us. And many of them have been made tranquil, and are now of us as well. Their stories are known. He is a very dangerous man; he is known to have killed two templars who either tried to stop him or spoke out against him, and is suspected of being involved in the death of at least one other, in addition to the many mages and tranquil he is known to have abused or killed. And he is not the worst templar of whom we know."

Keran closed his eyes, wishing for a moment that he didn't believe Feynriel's steady, implacable voice. But how could he _not_ believe, when the evidence of templar cruelty bloomed in dark bruises on his own body, and on the face of the man he had come to love?

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, turning his head to look up at Feynriel's shadowed face.

"Because you are a templar, but you are not one of the cruel ones. I believe you are a good man, as much as your position allows you to be. And after last night, I think you may be more one of us than one of them. Especially since you had said you did not think you could live with yourself if you did not at least try to stop them."

* * *

><p>Moving hurt just as much as he thought it would, but he could not remain lying on the floor in the tranquil dorm forever. He cried out as Feynriel helped him to his feet, and had to lean heavily on the other man to walk – more a shuffle then a walk, but at least it served to move him. He could have just had Feynriel help him to one of the cots, he supposed, but he had a nasty feeling that once he was down again, it would be some time before he rose, and decided he'd rather be in his own bed. He had Feynriel help him to the bathing chamber first, where he made use of the earth closet, and cursed when he saw how dark his urine was – red with blood, he suspected.<p>

He removed his stained and stinking clothes, and washed clean as best he could with a bucket of cold water and Feynriel's help. His torso was a mass of ugly bruises, his arms and legs spotted with them as well. It was only when he touched his own head to clean some of the filth out of his matted hair that he realized it was as much dried blood as flecks of vomit, and felt the size of the swelling on the side of his head, where the first blow had landed. He had, he suspected, come close to dying from that first blow, and was lucky the subsequent beating hadn't finished the job.

Once he was washed and dressed in a clean nightshirt, Feynriel helped him to his bed, then returned to the bathing chamber to clean himself up as well. He was still naked when he returned to their room a short while later to find a clean nightshirt of his own. Keran was relieved to see that his injuries were nowhere near as extensive nor as bad as Keran's own, yet he hated Etienne and his men even more for each and every mark he could see on Feynriel's flesh than he did for all of his own. Part of his anger, he recognized, was because it hurt to see someone he cared for in pain – part because he felt responsible for the injuries, which might not have happened if he'd made a different choice the night before. But the largest part was because Feynriel himself was unable to feel anger or hatred over what had so callously been done to him. Unable to feel anything but that he was hurt, and to know, intellectually, that the men had done something cruel.

To his surprise, Feynriel joined him in his bed, curling up next to him, staying close. Just like he had in the other room, when he'd lain down on the floor beside him, far from the most comfortable place to have rested. He found himself feeling both touched and comforted by the tranquil's near presence, and hoped that Feynriel was there because he, too, derived some kind of reassurance from their closeness. He fell asleep still trying to puzzle out what abstract non-emotion might have led the tranquil to stay beside him.


	17. Return

Keran remained in bed for the next three days, slowly recovering. Feynriel looked after him while he recuperated from the beating; cooking their meals, keeping the fire fed, helping Keran to and from the bed the few times each day when he had to rise for long enough to go make use of the earth closet. He was relieved that neither of them seemed to have taken any permanent injury from their experience. Apart, that is, from his new-found inability to ever fully trust his fellow templars again. Even the ones in Kirkwall, some of whom he'd known for years, trained with, worked with... he realized there were very few of them he felt absolutely certain wouldn't ever abuse one of their charges.

He had time to do a lot of thinking while he was lying in bed those few days, and he uneasily came to the realization that there was possibly something wrong with the way the chantry allowed the mages and tranquil in their care to be treated. Something very wrong, when people like Ser Etienne and Ser Alrik were tolerated, even rewarded, for the abuses they perpetuated. But even without such abuses... there was still something wrong.

Knight-Commander Meredith spoke strongly of the danger the mages could become, to themselves and to others, if they turned to blood magic, or gave themselves over to demons and became abominations. She had strong reason for that, he knew – it was spoken of how her own sister had become such a mage, wiping out an entire village before she could be stopped. He, too, had seen abominations in his time in Kirkwall; seen blood mages as well, _knew_ what dangerous horrors they were – had nearly died at their hands, would have if not for Hawke's timely intervention. Having seen what devastation even one such mage could cause, he could understand the fear of them that many people felt.

There was also the history of the magi to consider. It was said to have been the trespass of Tevinter Magisters, working a great rite of blood magic, that had blackened the Golden City, turned the Maker's gaze from the peoples of Thedas. Even, it was theorized, been the start of the blights.

He thought about Transfigurations 1:2, the verse most commonly quoted when justifying the chantry's control of the mageborn – or at least, its first line usually was. "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond."

He knew of templars who regarded _all_ mages as maleficar. And yet... that wasn't what the verse said. Was it? His mind returned again and again to the second sentence, though he hadn't realized why until early on his second day in bed. _Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children_. His gift. Didn't that imply that magic, that mageborn powers, were a _gift_ from the Maker? And yet the chantry routinely referred to magic as a _curse_, not a gift.

It was only then that he thought of Transfigurations 1:3, the very next verse. "All men are the work of our Maker's hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." _All men_. Not "everyone except mages", but _all men_. It shook him to his very bones, made him question the foundations of everything he had ever been taught to believe, as a devout man, as a templar. All men. _His gift_.

When Feynriel next came into the room, he looked at him, and no longer did he see just a tranquil, an emotionless, unfeeling enigmatic creature, someone no longer quite human, as he would have so few months before. He saw a man. A man whose gift of powers, a _blessing_ from the Maker, had been ruthlessly stripped from him. A man who had most emphatically been wronged against by the chantry and its servants; had harm done to him not just once, but over and over again. And yet who still, even incapable as he was of feeling emotion, retained his humanity.

He was, he realized as tears filled his eyes, having what could only be described as a crisis of faith. Not due to some lack of faith in the Maker or Andraste, but because his faith that the chantry accurately expressed the Maker's will, interpreted Andraste's words by the spirit in which they were made, had been shaken. Profoundly shaken. He would, he suspected, never be the same man he had been before this winter posting. And while some of what he'd learned had been through painful experience, he realized, too, that he had to wish to be that blind young templar again. His eyes had been opened, to many things; he would not shut them again.

* * *

><p>On the morning of the fourth day he felt well enough to ask Feynriel to fire up the boiler. He managed to stand on his own, and hobble into the bathing chamber without the tranquil's assistance. The two of them bathed together, both of them glad for the chance to get properly clean again. Keran was still stiff and sore, his body a multi-coloured patchwork of fading bruises, but at least he was recovering, as was Feynriel.<p>

They returned to their normal routine after that, Keran making his slow, pained way around the post and performing his duties, which thankfully were light. He returned to spending much of his free time in the workroom, working quietly on an illumination, a good one this time, a design sketched out by Feynriel at his request, one that Keran had made all the choices for himself as far as motifs and colours to be used went.

By the time they had more visitors – a first train of merchants coming south over the pass - the worst of his injuries had healed. And by the time their relief arrived – three tranquil and two templars, not the same two as he'd replaced in the fall, he was relieved to see – there was no sign remaining at all of the ordeal they'd both undergone.

Keran did a proper job of handing over duty at the outpost to the pair, giving them a more thorough tour than he'd ever been given, and making sure to stress the importance of tasks like laying in a proper supply of wood for the winter. He was relieved to see one of the pair nod agreement to that – likely the templar had come from a rural background and was more aware of the harsh realities of overwintering in a remote location than some of their brethren were.

While he was to some measure relieved to be heading back to civilization, he also felt a rather definite pang of sorrow at the knowledge that his time with Feynriel was ending. A few days travel to return to Kirkwall, and then... back to normal. Back to only ever seeing the man in passing, with no opportunities to talk, to touch.

That hurt far more than any blow or bruise ever could.

* * *

><p>They would reach Kirkwall some time the next day, Keran found himself thinking, as he settled down by the fire with his plate of food. If you knew where to look, you could see the faint smudge to the southeast where the smokes of its foundries and fires rose into the otherwise clear air. He watched Feynriel as the tranquil neatly ate his own meal, studying that placid face.<p>

He had purposefully chosen to set up camp for the night some distance off the main road, in a stand of trees where their presence would not be readily noticeable to any chance traveller passing by. It would be their last night together – their last night to _be_ together, in any meaningful way. He knew that meant many things to him – he was unsure, still, if it meant anything to Feynriel.

Yet when they had finished cleaning up from their meal, finished putting things away, and he spread his bedroll near the fire, Feynriel unrolled his own right beside Keran's, without any prompting. It made Keran feel relieved; he'd intended to _ask_, if he had to, but it being Feynriel's own independent choice – that moved him more than he thought it would. Would, he knew, make his memory of their final sharing be that little bit more special to him, even if it was unlikely to be special to Feynriel himself.

He did his best to _make_ it special. To give Feynriel as much pleasure as he could, this one last time, bringing him close to the peak over and over again with his hands, his mouth, with tongue and touch. Bringing them both close, then backing down again, over and over. Until all Feynriel could do was cling tightly to him, making soft needy cries, wanting release.

He gave himself to him then, holding his own legs spread wide while Feynriel bent over him, entered him, took him, both of them crying out in shared pleasure, not once, but several times, as they peaked again and again before their pent-up desire was exhausted. He memorized that moment, locking it away in his heart – Feynriel above him in the darkness, ecstatic face lit by the fire as he called out hoarsely, all pale gold hair and pale gold eyes and pale gold skin.

They talked a little, afterwards, Feynriel stretched out warm and close on top of Keran.

"We can't do this any more after we get back tomorrow," Keran said. Wanting to be sure that Feynriel understood that as well as he himself did. "It would get us into trouble."

"Yes," Feynriel agreed.

"If... if you ever need anything... if there's someone doing things they shouldn't, or anything like that... come to me. I'll do whatever I can to help," Keran said. "Though that may not be much. All right?"

"Yes."

He brushed Feynriel's hair back from his face, studying his expression again. So calm and unworried. So empty seeming, though he knew now that the heads of the tranquil were anything but _empty_. Full of thoughts, instead, thoughts not influenced by emotions like fear or dislike, nor guilt, nor love. He had come to believe that the chantry little understood just what they had created, in making the tranquil. And yet they had made so very many of them...

He cupped Feynriel's face between his hands, kissed him tenderly on the lips. A rare thing; it was not something Feynriel himself ever sought, perhaps because it was less a source of pleasure without the emotion that it represented. Caring. Tenderness. Love. But even if it was not a pleasure he'd sought, he made no protest to it either, simply allowing the kiss, accepting it, as calmly as he accepted everything.

"I will miss you," Keran said, voice unsteady, and wrapped his arms around the other man, holding him close. "I wish..."

He did not finish that thought. Some things were too painful to speak of, to a man who could not return the sentiment. Who was incapable of even feeling the emotion that inspired it.

They slept like that, Feynriel sheltered within the circle of Keran's arms.


	18. Expediency

Keran had never much paid attention to his potential advancement within the templars before, not when his little misadventure with blood magic had meant he was effectively frozen at the recruit level. But with the reorganization that had begun last year following Alrik's murder, and his rank having finally been advanced to full Templar, he began to give it some thought. There were positions that, if he attained them, would give him some influence over the treatment of the tranquil here in Kirkwall. It would, he thought, take time – years of carefully building a good reputation, of catching the attention and earning the eventual trust of Knight-Captain Cullen. But it was, he felt, a worthy goal to set for himself.

He started by making sure that his written report about his winter posting was as concise, accurate, and non-judgemental as possible, mentioning things like the shortage of wood but not specifically blaming it on the laziness of the men who'd been there prior to him. And he described, in as detached terms as he could manage, the incident with Knight-Lieutenant Etienne and his men. The day after handing it in, he found himself summoned to Cullen's office.

"Have a seat, Ser Keran," Cullen said, gesturing to the chair across from his own, even as he pulled open a desk drawer and took something out of it. "I need you to rewrite this report," Cullen continued, dropping the neatly hand-written pages on his desk and pushing them across to within Keran's reach.

"Ser? I don't understand... it's an accurate report. Everything I described in it happened."

"I know. Too accurate," Cullen said bluntly. "If I accept this report as written, I'll have no choice but to formally lodge a complaint against Knight-Lieutenant Etienne and his hunting group with Cumberland. I can tell you now that to do so will do nothing but hurt your standing and reputation."

"But it _happened_," Keran said stubbornly, his intention of winning Cullen's approval and trust fighting against his desire to do what was right.

"I have no doubt that it did," Cullen said unhappily. "Unfortunately... well, look. Do you have any proof at all that this occurred, other than your own word? Any witnesses at all?"

"Feynriel..."

"...is tranquil. His word means nothing. _Less_ than nothing, in the eyes of many. So it's the word of a still wet-behind-the-ears templar with a questionable past on his first remote posting, against a well-known, well-respected Knight-Lieutenant and all his men. It won't do you any good to pursue this complaint, Templar," he said, tapping one finger against the stacked papers.

"You're _protecting_ him," Keran exclaimed angrily.

"Wrong. I'm protecting _you_. We've had trouble with templars out of other jurisdictions before, particularly Cumberland, and I am all too familiar with how these complaints typically play out. I wouldn't be surprised that if we made some quiet enquiry into Etienne's movements, that official records of the Cumberland outposts would show there was no way he could have been at your post on the night you claim. And if you do pursue it anyway, there'll be some third party, a merchant with an excellent reputation for example, who is willing to tell all about how he witnessed the two of you having an altercation that _you_ started which ended with you threatening to ruin Etienne's reputation."

"But... it's _wrong_," Keran said, a touch stubbornly.

"I know that. I agree that it's wrong. But you can either make that change, or ruin your career and possibly further endanger your life. Look, Keran – you're a good man, and a hard worker. If it hadn't been for that incident with the blood mages, you'd have been made a full templar years ago. I'm no more happy with this situation than you are, I'm sure. But given a choice between doing what's right and doing what's expedient, in this situation I have to take the expedient choice. Make the change," he ordered, and pushed the papers another inch closer to Keran.

"Yes, ser," Keran said unhappily, took back the sheath, and walked out.

* * *

><p>He saw Feynriel occasionally, passing him in the hallway, spotting him out in one of the gardens or courtyards, seeing him eating in the large refectory hall where the mages and tranquil took their meals. He was careful to pay him no more attention than he did any other tranquil. To maintain his distance, in both action and in speech. The ache of seeing him and not being able to be with him faded a little, with time, but did not go away.<p>

Knight-Captain Cullen seemed pleased with him, even though he'd made him change the report. He guessed the man valued honesty. And he'd spoken well of Keran's work, which gave him hope that his long-term plans might someday work out.

And then in one short day and too-long night, everything changed. The qunari rebelled, having had enough of Kirkwall and its inhabitants. By the time the thankfully short-lived war was over, a good number of templars were dead, or sidelined by injury. By a random stroke of luck, Keran had acquitted himself well in the defence of Kirkwall, having been in the city with a patrol of recruits. He'd lost one of the recruits in the fighting, but had otherwise successfully stood his ground, kept his men together, and defended a large group of citizens that might otherwise have died at qunari hands.

He was promoted directly from Templar Keran to Knight-Lieutenant Keran as a result of his actions, and in the shuffle that occurred afterwards, managed to step into exactly the job he wanted to have, it not being of one of enough prestige for anyone with real influence to bother trying for when there were much better positions that suddenly needed filling; responsibility for guarding the tranquil. The position came with an office of his own, and a clerk to help manage all the paperwork and record-keeping involved.

* * *

><p>Keran smiled as looked around the office. Small, but neatly laid out, with a desk, bookshelves, storage chests and the like. His sword and shield rested on a stand in one corner, handy to his desk. Apart from that there was only one item of decoration in the room; a small illuminated quotation hung up on the wall. Not one of the standard illuminations that the Formari made for sale by the chantry; it was a custom design. At the bottom, a templar shield with the flaming sword crest clearly marked on it, leaning against the base of a sturdy candle-stand bearing a single large red candle. A moth hovered in the darkness above and to one side of the candle, parts of its wing picked out in gilding that, when the light caught it just right, appeared to be an androgynous face, the gold eye-spots on the moth's wings forming the eyes.<p>

The quote was short, truncated from its usual length, doubtless so it would fit on the small sheet neatly. "Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift," it read.

He sat down behind his desk, looked around the room again, still feeling both surprised and pleased over how quickly his fortunes had turned since the spring. There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" he called out. It opened, admitting his new clerk. He couldn't help but smile widely as pale gold eyes met his. "Good to be working with you again, Feynriel," he said warmly. "Does your office have everything you need?"

"Yes," Feynriel answered, voice as calm and uninflected as ever.


	19. Information

Keran rose to his feet to greet the man Feynriel had just shown into his office. "Ser Thrask," he said, giving him a formal little bow. "Thank you for coming to meet with me. Please, have a seat," he said, waving at the chair across from his.

"Ser Keran," Thrask said, then bowed and sat down, glancing curiously at Feynriel as the tranquil moved to sit in a chair off to one side of the two men, hands folded neatly in his lap, then obviously dismissed his presence as of no concern, turning back to Keran. "May I ask what you wanted to see me about? Your request was not specific... and as far as I know my own tasks have nothing to do with your area of responsibility which is, I believe, the care of the tranquil?"

"That is correct," Keran said. He set his hands neatly before him on the desk, palms down, and frowned down at them for a moment before looking back up to Thrask and speaking, voice quiet, face calm. "You are connected to the mage underground," he said.

Thrask said nothing for a moment, just stared back at him, face as calm and blank as if he himself was tranquil. "I don't know what..."

Keran stopped him, raising one hand. "Do not bother denying it. I have my sources. I have been looking for a contact with the underground for some time. I was informed by someone I trust that you are either a member of the underground, or have excellent contacts with them. So... I wish to work with the underground. I have information that might..."

"I do not believe I should continue this conversation, Ser Keran," Thrask said, eyes narrowing dangerously. He was tense... frightened, Keran supposed. "I don't know who told you this nonsense about my being part of..." He started to rise to his feet, looking grim.

"Ser Thrask, _sit down_," Keran ordered.

Thrask's face turned thunderous. "You are not _my _superior, Knight-Lieutenant..."

"_Sit down_. I have three pieces of information I wish to tell you. You may leave freely afterwards and I will never say another word about this conversation to anyone. Whether or not you do is up to you. But I sincerely believe you need to hear what I have to say, and I think once I am finished you will wish to continue this conversation, if indeed you have the contacts I believe you do."

It balanced on a knife's edge for a moment. Then curiosity won out. Thrask resumed his seat, arms crossed across his chest, and glared at Keran. "Go on," he bit the words out.

The first item made him freeze. The second turned his face red with anger, and had him starting to rise from his chair again, a curse on his lips. The third made him drop abruptly back into it, face as pale as chalk. Keran sat back in his chair, looking expectantly at him.

"All right," Thrask grated out after several minutes of thought. "You're right. I am... _involved_ with the underground,. And I _do_ need to hear more. How did you even obtain this informa..." he broke off suddenly, head snapping around to look at Feynriel, who sat motionless and calm nearby. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at Keran. "Elsa."

"Yes. The tranquil, whom everyone is used to discounting so easily that they often forget they're even there," Keran said, dryly. "Who do much of the record keeping and note taking in offices throughout the Gallows, among other tasks. Including within the _highest_ of offices here. They have eyes and ears, Thrask. And brains. And they _trust_ me. Enough to be willing to tell me some of what they've seen and heard. The underground _needs_ me, Thrask. Needs the help that the tranquil and I can be, the information that we can supply. I don't ask to have any more involvement than a safe contact I can pass such information on to."

"All right," Thrask said, and then smiled, faintly. "I suppose the tranquil have as much right to be involved with the underground as any other man."

"More," Keran said softly, glancing at the still-silent Feynriel for a moment. "As much or more than any other mage."

* * *

><p>Years of quiet work, feeding bits of information to the underground through the contacts Thrask had arranged for him; dead-drops, mostly, in places a tranquil could easily leave a folded letter, and a few live contacts for emergency use only. He knew that his information, culled from the stories that the tranquil passed to him through Feynriel, saved more than a few lives. And ended some, too, as Ser Alrik's life had been ended.<p>

Quiet years, mainly concentrating on his job, keeping his charges safe, seeing that they were reasonably well-treated, protecting them from the abuses they might otherwise have had to endure. Working with Feynriel each day was both a joy and a pain; the joy of seeing him, of knowing that he was well. The pain, that gradually eased in time, of never being with him as they had been together at the outpost; never touching him, never sharing pleasure with him.

He was certain that Feynriel had lovers among the other tranquil, at least as much as the sharing of pleasure they did could be called love; there was no reason for him not to, after all. After the first few months apart he began visiting the Blooming Rose again occasionally himself; it would look odd if he didn't. His choices there were usually female. And never blond. They were merely a release, nothing special to him. Not as Feynriel was special, even now.

He was disappointed and angry when the underground, in the end, proved to be just as apt to take the expedient path over that which was right. When Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, once his hero, turned out to be just another man, his decisions as arbitrary and cruel as any other man's. In the bloody aftermath of the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry and the massacre at the Gallows, Keran left Kirkwall.

He did not leave alone. He took the Formari of Kirkwall with him, all that he could save.


	20. Endings and Beginnings

It had been a long hard road to safety; over a year of travel. They'd accumulated more Formari along the way, from outposts and a rural establishment in Nevarra, and a handful who were wandering about lost following the fall of the circles they'd previously inhabited. They were a formidable force by now, most of the tranquil armed with bows and clubs or staffs they'd made for themselves, some wearing bits of armour scavenged from the many dead they'd come across – or, on occasion, caused – in their long, wandering journey to the west.

They'd encountered very little opposition to their migration after the first few months of travel, most of the occasional forces of templars they'd encountered preferring to get out of their path and leave them alone. _He _certainly wouldn't have wanted to go up against them in battle; their emotionless silence as they fought, the lack of any anger or fear on their faces, was far more frightening than the bravest show of polished armour and determined face. And so many of the templars more arcane abilities had no effect on them at all, making them a harder foe than full mages would have been. They had a few of those, as well, though most of the apostates they'd met had preferred to go their own way rather than joining a group of Formari.

He could understand that; he could see the uneasiness their massed presence raised in the mages here; he supposed that was in part due to the knowledge any mage must certainly feel, that had things gone just a little differently, they, too, might have ended up tranquil. There was also the fact that few people had ever seen so many Formari gathered in one place at the same time, and it was _disturbing_ to be around that many blank-faced people; even he found them eery at times, and he was used to them.

Feynriel drifted out of the crowd and over to his side, as he sometimes did. Keran smiled at him, finding his close presence reassuring. They had resumed sleeping together occasionally since leaving Kirkwall; _not_ at any instigation of his. He had not asked, but when one night Feynriel had separated himself from the others, walked over and spread out his bedroll beside Keran, he had not turned him away, either. He made no claim on Feynriel; expected nothing more of him than that Feynriel do what he chose to do. And if that choice sometimes included him, he was certainly not going to object to it.

A couple of the other templars had looked at him askance for it the next day; he'd had to have a talk with everyone, making it clear that it was allowed to have relationships with the tranquil, but only if the tranquil themselves initiated it. "Their choice – not ours," he'd firmly emphasized. They'd been willing to accept that, and in time he wasn't the only templar who sometimes had a tranquil choosing to share pleasure with him. It brought them closer together as a group, as did the dangers they'd faced down together on the long road.

He looked around as the door to the room opened, pulling him back out of his thoughts. A woman entered, dressed in plain armour, her long black hair drawn back in a thick braid. She came to an abrupt stop, eyes widening slightly as she looked around the room full of silent tranquil. He took a step forward, drawing her attention. She smiled slightly, and walked over to him.

"Ser Keran?" she asked, and at his nod of acknowledgement, gave him an abbreviated bow. "I'm Ser Evangeline. Welcome to the Reach," she said, then turned to look at the Formari again. "And these are all your tranquil?" she asked, sounding surprised and unnerved. "By the Maker... how did you manage to get them all here!"

Keran smiled slightly. "More accurate to say I'm _their_ templar. They've allowed myself and a few other templars to accompany them because they decided we were both trustworthy enough and useful enough to be allowed to do so. But they are their own people, and have come here by their own choice. And mostly we just walked a lot."

That drew a smile from her. "An activity I am not unfamiliar with," she said. "Well. I suppose we'll have to see about getting them properly settled in."

Keran nodded. "We'd heard... there was a rumour that there was a way of curing the tranquil..." he asked hesitantly, and could not stop himself from glancing at Feynriel, who'd moved forward to stand by his side again.

She nodded, very seriously. "Yes. We have a spirit healer here who has managed to work out the trick of it, based on what little we knew about how it had first been accomplished; we have a few ex-Formari already. They will talk to these about what it involves, and the risks of it, and then any who wish to may undergo the process."

"Risks?" he asked, nervously.

She nodded again. "It is not without danger. Some are unable to adjust to the return of emotions, or to properly control their powers, especially if they never had a chance to learn how before being made tranquil in the first place. We... have had to kill one abomination already, as a result. We believe we have worked out the best ways of handling the process now, to cause as little trauma as possible, but..." she broke off and shook her head slightly, then looked around the room. "It will take time, to heal this many. But it will be well worth it, not just for the additional mages it will give us, but because it is something that _should_ be done."

That made Keran smile, it being a sentiment he fully agreed with. He glanced at Feynriel, was mildly startled to realize he was holding the other man's hand; he must have taken it in his when she had spoken of _risks_, he realized. He studied Feynriel's face for a long moment, then turned back to Evangeline. He swallowed, nervously. "How long does it take?"

She was looking down at his hand, he saw. When her eyes rose to his face again, one eyebrow arching slightly, he lifted his chin slightly, mouth firming, He was not ashamed of his relationship with Feynriel; he had no intention of disavowing or hiding it. She could, as far as he was concerned, like it or lump it. After a moment she smiled faintly, and gave a single slight nod. "A couple of weeks, usually – to prepare them mentally to undergo it, first of all, and then for them to adjust to the change, afterwards. It is easiest if they are kept apart from others during that time, as much as they can be – both for their own safety, and ours," she explained.

Feynriel drew his hand free and wandered off again, merging back into a nearby group of tranquil. They had their heads bent together, were talking in soft voices in the way that Keran had come to know meant they were sharing information – memories, knowledge, thoughts, the rules they had worked out for living their quiet lives. Which reminded Keran... he took off his backpack, and drew out a thick sheaf of papers. "The tranquil wrote this out," he said, offering it to her. "It is everything that any of these ones know, about every templar they are aware of who has ever abused a mage or tranquil. They thought the rebellion might find it of some use, when deciding whether or not to admit various templars to the ranks, if nothing else."

Both her eyebrows rose that time, as she accepted it from his hand, and quickly flipped through it, reading a few entries at random. "Thank you," she said, sounding stunned. "Our own ex-tranquil had spoken of such knowledge, but they were only able to supply small parts of it, related to templars here in Orlais. This is... this is invaluable," she said. "Maker... so many names..."

"I know," Keran said, grimly. "The Order has much to answer for."

Evangeline nodded, then frowned slightly, and glanced at Feynriel. When she spoke again, her voice was lowered. "You realize that he will likely be a very different person once he has been cured? He... might not wish to see you any further, after..."

"I know," Keran said, equally soft, his own eyes finding Feynriel. "If he chose to stay tranquil... I would be happy to spend the rest of my life with him, accepting whatever crumbs he was moved to share with me. But _he_ could never be happy, and... I want that for him. That he can _feel_ again, even if it takes him from me."

She nodded again, in understanding, and a faint smile curved his lips. "You're a good man, Ser Keran," she said. "Not all could be as unselfish."

He smiled, then. "He's told me that once or twice, too... that I'm a good man. I just hope he still thinks so, afterwards."

She nodded, then sighed, and looked around the room again. "Well. I suppose we'd better work out where to put you all. We're a bit short on living space here... this place was a ruin when we moved in, and we're still working on making it habitable."

He smiled. "They'll be able to help with that, as will my men and I... none of us is a stranger to hard work."

* * *

><p>He stood outside the door for a long time before he finally worked up the nerve to raise his hand and knock. Two weeks and three days, since he had last seen Feynriel, walking away down the hallway with a group of other Formari, on their way to undergo the treatment that would cure them.<p>

"Come in."

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Feynriel was sitting in the window embrasure across from the narrow bed, head turned away to look out of it. Keran stopped, just staring at him, not even breathing as he drank in the sight of him. Feynriel looked much the same as always... even the same robes as he'd last seen him wearing. The same calm expression on his face, his long blond hair caught back in a simple braid. Beautiful, as always. He turned to look at Keran, at last, and Keran started breathing again, seeing... _something_, some difference, in his pale gold eyes. He swallowed, nervously, clasped his hands together in front of him. "Feynriel," he managed to say. "You look... well."

Feynriel rose to his feet. His head tilted to one side, just a little – a mannerism he'd never had before. "Keran," he said, and his voice was not as emotionless and calm as it had always been. There was a faint tremor to it.

"May I... come closer?" Keran asked, hesitantly. Feynriel nodded. He walked forward, stopping an arm's length from Feynriel, when he saw the other man begin to tense. He found himself staring at him, at the faint ghosts of expression flitting across Feynriel's face, there and gone again too fast for him to identify. Then the faintest of frowns crossed his face and stayed, wrinkling the brand on his forehead, and Keran found his breath catching. So many years, that he had seen this man's so-calm face – seen it reflect expression only when Feynriel was feeling deep pleasure, or, once, after he'd taken an injury during the journey here, great pain. To see real expression on it now... he was torn over whether it made him want to smile or cry.

"I... don't know how I feel about you," Feynriel said abruptly. "I _remember_ you. I remember... all that we have done together. But I'm not that person any more," he said. "I can... I _feel _things, again." He stopped, as abruptly as he'd started, and just studied Keran's face, as intently as Keran had been studying his. "You... were always kind. Always gentle," Feynriel said after a moment, voice a near-whisper. "You always let it be _my_ choice."

Keran swallowed, and spoke, his own voice hoarse. "It still is. If you... if you don't think you want me as part of your life, if I remind you too much of what it was to _not_ feel... then I'll go. You just have to tell me what you chose."

Feynriel's face went smooth and calm again for a long moment, the same placid non-expression he'd had for so many years, with the extreme stillness he'd always had when lost in thought. And then he drew a deep breath, and met Keran's eyes. A small – a very small – smile lifted the corners of his lips in a shy, sweet smile that simultaneously broke and lifted Keran's heart.

Feynriel turned his eyes away to look out the window a moment, cheeks flushing. "I think... I think I at least want to _try_..." he said, then looked at Keran again. And took the step that closed the distance between them.


End file.
